


The Least of His Children

by TerraTheTerror



Series: As A Moth Sees Light [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, No character bashing, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Past Mpreg, Past Rape/Non-con, Physical Assault of a Child, Slavery, Trans Fenris, rated m for violence and the f-word
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 48,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16536950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraTheTerror/pseuds/TerraTheTerror
Summary: All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,From the lowest slavesTo the highest kings.Those who bring harmWithout provocation to the least of His childrenAre hated and accursed by the Maker.Transfigurations 1:3Fenris does not come to Kirkwall alone.In their faces, Hawke sees an echo of the refugees from Fereldan, the same hunger and exhaustion that permeated the ship to Kirkwall.You’re going nowhere, slaves.That’s what the bounty hunter said, right before Fenris ripped his heart out.Slaves.Fuck the Maker,Hawke thinks.





	1. Live Without Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very different, very much improved version of the fanfic called "Moth's Wings." For warnings and additional pairings, please read the end note. There are potential triggers in the first chapter already.

_"A dog might slink back to the hand it has bitten_

_And be forgiven, but a slave never._

_If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight."_

                Shartan 9:7

 

—————

 

Hawke has a problem.

Granted, that is usually the case for him. This particular problem, however, is not at all usual.

Because this elf — Fenris — is asking for help. Hawke rarely says no to people in need; unfortunately for Fenris, he’s really not in a charitable mood, thanks to the viscera drying on his armor and the twisted state of Aveline’s arm. Her injury is severe enough to leave her lightheaded and leaning on Hawke for support.

It’s not a great situation.

Hawke stalls a little as he thinks, shifting his feet. Something squelches under his boot — probably an arm or something.

_Not. In. The. Mood._

But…

There’s also the child. When Fenris stepped out of the shadows and into the Alienage, she followed silently — a little girl dressed in an oversized tunic, her hand clutched tightly in his. Now she peeks out wearily from behind Fenris’ legs, studying Hawke while he studies her.

Fenris never actually introduced her, but Hawke can tell who she is. He’s not that dumb. ( _Debatable_ , he thinks, in Aveline’s voice.) With her white hair and pointed ears, it’s ridiculously obvious that the little girl is Fenris’ daughter. The shadows of her cheekbones and the dark bags under her eyes only add to their similarities…

In their faces, Hawke sees an echo of the refugees from Fereldan. The same hunger and exhaustion that permeated the ship to Kirkwall.

 _You’re going nowhere, slaves._ That’s what the bounty hunter said, right before Fenris ripped his heart out. _Slaves._

 _Fuck the Maker,_ Hawke thinks.

He looks away from the child and nods at Fenris.

“Lead the way.”

 

—————

 

Fenris does. He walks ahead of them, still tense, his hand gripped tightly around his daughter’s. Not once does he check to see if they still follow. The girl glances back constantly.

Hawke tries to send Aveline to Anders’ clinic, but she refuses to leave while a magister and a bunch of slavers run amok; he at least gets her to drink a potion to dull the pain. Meanwhile, Isabela needles him over the whole ordeal (“I can’t believe you didn’t ask for the gold first, what is wrong with you?”) but in the end, Aveline is the one she antagonizes. The two start to bicker terribly, and Hawke drowns them out as Carver matches his stride.

“Not demanding payment, brother?”

Hawke sighs wearily. “Not you, too. Our parents didn’t raise us to abandon anyone to slavers, yet alone a child —”

“I’m not complaining,” Carver snaps, and Hawke looks to him and finds it true. His brother’s eyes are fixed on Fenris and his daughter, his blue gaze still intense despite the darkness of the hour. “We should be careful, but I think — I think this is right.”

Hawke hesitates, then shakes his head at his own cowardice and says, “Bethany would have wanted to help.”

“Yeah... Yeah, she would’ve.”

Both brothers fall silent for the rest of the walk.

 

—————

 

When they reach the Chantry in Hightown, Fenris stops and gazes up at the towering walls. “I think this might be our best bet,” he says, jiggling his daughter’s hand a little.

She looks up at the Chantry as well, then back to her father with wide eyes. When she speaks, Hawke can’t make out a single word; he’s pretty sure the dead mice under Gamlen’s bed are louder than her.

“No,” Fenris replies. With a careful hand, he sweeps his daughter’s hair from her cheek and tucks it behind her pointed ear. “Not alone, no.”

Speaking to Hawke now, Fenris doesn’t move his gaze from his daughter as he asks, “Is there any way someone could watch over Luta?”

Luta. The name sounds strange, but no more so than Fenris.

He continues, “I wish to keep her as far from Danarius as possible. Bringing her to this fight… Well, I’d rather avoid it.”

“Aveline can,” Hawke says.

She whips her head around to stare at him. He knows what she’s thinking; few are as terrible with children as Aveline is. That’s actually her reasoning for how poorly she gets along with Varric and Isabela. _You know how I am with children, Hawke. Babysitting these two is not the type of task suited to me._

Maker, he hopes she forgives him for this. As great a warrior as she is, Hawke’s apparently about to face a very powerful magister, and he would rather keep his uninjured companions with him for this fight.

“Fine,” Aveline grits out. She sounds about as angry and put out as he expected. “I’ll watch the child.”

“Thank you,” Fenris says. The slump of his shoulders eases slightly as he gestures to the cathedral before them. “Take shelter here. I doubt Danarius would risk entering any Chantry when he is inexperienced with Templars. And as long as I remain his primary target, he will not venture into unknown dangers to track down Luta.”

“He’s not interested in catching your daughter?” Isabela asks, cocking her hip to the side and raising one attractive eyebrow.

Fenris clenches his jaw and bites out, “No.”

Isabela purses her lips, clearly unsatisfied with such a short answer, so Hawke tries to steer the conversation back on track before she can start a fight. Again.

“And since you’re taking the battle to him, Danarius won’t have reason to search for her.”

“Precisely.”

“Guess you’re off the hook, kid,” Hawke says to the girl — _Luta_ , he reminds himself — who startles, jumping back a step before glaring at him through her overgrown bangs.

Fenris sighs, “Luta…”

Even though his tone is gentle, Luta shrinks back at her father’s admonishment. Her glare darts from Hawke to her feet, but doesn’t lessen in the least. Hawke doesn’t mind, per say, but he would like to know what he did or said to earn such nasty looks from her.

“Well, if you want to kill that magister, you’d best get a move on,” Aveline reminds them. She steps forward, kneeling before Luta. “Your father has a big fight ahead of him. Let’s make things easier for him and wait in the Chantry, okay?”

“Okay,” Luta says, her voice strangely hoarse. She stares at Fenris for a long moment, searching his face for something, before taking the hand Aveline offers her. The two of them climb the Chantry stairs, and Hawke watches Fenris watch them until they are too far to spot in the dark.

“Shall we kill this Danarius now?” Hawke prompts.

Fenris nods, gesturing to their left. “This way, then.”

 

—————

 

For someone who seemed suitably cautious walking into the fight, Fenris proves very brazen as soon as the first shades appear. His taunts echo through the dim halls, but no one answers.

The magister did not expect Fenris to have backup — certainly not backup with any decent fighting experience — and Hawke suspects the man realized his error and fled. Judging by the dark look creeping over Fenris’ face, Hawke is not the only one who thinks so.

When they reach the magister’s room, the one that had been locked and guarded by an Arcane Horror, they find it empty. This Danarius is long gone.

Fenris panics. “Not here. Venhedis! He’s not _here!”_

Without another word, Fenris bolts from the room, over the banister to the floor below. Carver’s mouth drops open and Isabela whistles appreciatively. Hawke tries to follow, racing down the stairs two at a time. A thought has occurred to him, and he’s certain the same thought spurred Fenris’ panic.

What if Fenris had been wrong?

_Luta._

Fenris is fast, but so is Hawke. Years of chasing after their mabari and (to his mother’s embarrassment) his younger siblings have honed his speed. Carver and Isabela lag behind. Hawke barely takes notice as he runs through the mansion’s open doorway.

His boots thunder against Hightown’s stonework, excruciatingly loud compared to Fenris’ silent footfalls. Meanwhile, Fenris spares him no heed. He just runs fast — too fast. When they reach the Chantry and he moves to turn, his bare feet slide on the stone beneath them, and Hawke is a few strides away, too far to catch him, and Fenris falls —

— doesn’t fall. He somehow shifts into a roll, tumbling forward to the Chantry’s stairs, then springs up and continues forward.

Hawke takes a second to look down at his own giant, fumbling body, and feels supremely jealous.

Among other things.

Shaking his head, Hawke jerks forward and up the steps, taking two at a time. He reaches the top just as Aveline opens the Chantry door for Fenris.

_“Luta!”_

He storms past Aveline, but his worry is unnecessary. In the middle of the Chantry’s hall, surrounded by deep red carpet and the fiery glow of nearby candles, is Luta. Her eyes are a little hazy, and she greets them with a yawn.

Of course. Under Aveline’s guard, nothing worse than exhaustion has harmed her. Hawke heaves a sigh of relief.

Fenris, on the other hand, swoops down on his daughter. She startles and takes a step back; he stops immediately.

“Luta…”

Wide awake now, she stares back at her father. There is a moment of tense silence before her face crumples and turns a vicious red.

“Sorry!” Luta lunges for her father while the word still hangs in the air, her tiny frame falling into his embrace. Fenris wraps his arms around her. When he speaks, it’s too soft for Hawke to hear.

 “We’ll wait outside,” he says. Neither Fenris nor his daughter acknowledge hearing him, but he’s certain they did. Nobody has ever accused him of being too quiet before.

Aveline follows him out the door and closes it behind her. It’s excellent timing, too, since the door is just clicking shut when Carver shows up with Isabela draped around his shoulders.

“I can’t believe you!” Carver ignores Hawke’s gesture of _keep it down_ and continues shouting in his face. “You just took off and left me with _her!”_

“What’s wrong with her?” Hawke starts to take out a health potion, but his brother shakes his head.

“It’s a concussion. Slammed her head during the fight against that rage demon. She needs a healer, not a potion.”

Hawke sighs. “Damn. Well, hurry to Darktown and see if Anders —”

“No!” Carver sounds like more of a child than Luta has all night. Hawke wants to punch him in the face. “I already had to lug her all the way over here! Without you!”

“Are you calling me fat, Carver?” Isabela slurs.

“No, I’m calling you a pervert — _stop squeezing my arms!”_

“You have nice biceps. Not as lovely as your brother’s, but they’ll do.”

“Uh,” Hawke pauses and blinks down at his own arms, “thanks, I guess?”

Carver drops Isabela. A whoosh of air escapes her as she hits the cold ground.

“Carver!” Hawke tries to admonish.

The brat ignores him. He just turns and leaves, heading towards Lowtown alone.

“Carver, you can’t go home by yourse—”

“Sod off!”

“Ouch,” Isabela whines. Hawke watches his brother disappear into the darkness as Aveline takes up the job of helping Isabela. “No, not you!”

Aveline rolls her eyes and lifts Isabela up with her one good arm. “You’ll just have to feel Hawke’s biceps another day. We both need to see Anders, and Hawke still needs to talk to Fenris.”

“Aveline, please, I am perfectly content to feel _your_ biceps instead,” Aveline grimaces, and for a second Hawke worries that she’ll abandon Isabela as well. “But you're too rough, big girl. Tonight’s a night for a gentle touch.”

“Keep that up, and I might put off bringing you to the clinic and throw you off the docks instead.”

“See? Rough!”

The two continue their banter as Aveline loops Isabela’s arm around her shoulders and heaves her away. Impressive as always, considering Aveline’s own injured arm.

They are barely out of Hawke’s sight when the Chantry door opens and closes behind him. Hawke turns to see Fenris carefully walking down the stairs with Luta hiked up on his back, her arms looped loosely around his neck. Her eyes flutter open and closed, torn between sleep and wakefulness. Hawke wishes he could do that right now. It’s been one hell of a day.

“Thank you,” says Fenris. His tone is perfectly polite, but there’s a stiff coolness in it that was not there before. Hawke raises an eyebrow.

“Is there a problem?”

Fenris grimaces, shifting his eyes to the shadows behind Hawke, then back again. His gaze is hard and dangerous.

“You are one of them.”

“One of what?”

“A _mage._ ”

... Right. That little factor.

“Sorry,” Hawke shrugs. Normally, this magic-is-evil attitude pisses him off, but coming from an ex-Tevinter slave, it seems… reasonable. “I assumed you saw me using magic back at the Alienage.”

“I did not.” Fenris’ scowl runs deeper. “Where is your staff now, _mage?”_

“Right here.” Hawke pulls it from the holster on his back. The damn holster cost him ten sovereigns, but it was worth it for the built-in enchantment: any staff touching it disappears to the naked eye.

Fenris steps back. One of the hands he was using to support Luta shifts to his hip, towards a small dagger.

That’s when Hawke notices something. “Hey, where’d your sword go?”

Gritting his teeth, Fenris takes hold of the dagger’s hilt. “I dropped it at the mansion.”

“Shit!” The word slips out, and Hawke peers nervously at Luta, but she seems asleep at last. “I mean, that’s… bad. We’d better head back there before any thugs show up.”

Hawke spins around and leads them back to the magister’s mansion. All the while, he keeps an eye out for movements in the darkness. He’s so preoccupied with his vigilance that Hawke doesn’t realize why Fenris had reached for his dagger until they arrive at the mansion’s doorsteps.

He whirls around. “Wait, wait, _wait._ I get you had bad experiences with mages —”

“Do you, now?”

“— but I _helped_ you. The least you could do in return is _not slit my throat.”_

Fenris clenches his jaw, and for a moment Hawke thinks that he is going to kill him for sure, but then he deflates, slouching a little in the shadow of his ex-master’s mansion.

“I wasn’t planning on killing you,” Fenris says, “just defending myself and my daughter should you prove to be like the mages we’ve met before.”

“Well, that’s not insulting at all,” Hawke gripes, “especially after I agreed to help you kill one of those mages.”

Fenris gives a brief smirk. “It is true that you are not Danarius.”

And that’s a point for Hawke. _Thank the Maker, I might not die tonight._

“Whether or not you are anything like him remains to be seen.”

 _Oh, come_ on.

Hawke decides that he’s had enough of this for one night — maybe for forever. “Well, good luck with whatever you do next, I suppose. It was lovely meeting someone as lovely as you.”

 _Fuck._ He did not mean to say that last part. He could literally throw himself into the Waking Sea right now. Fenris’ daughter is asleep on his back and Hawke _still_ doesn’t have the damned self-restraint to _not flirt_.

Probably Isabela’s influence.

(Then again, Isabela would have had a much better pick-up line. It was _lovely_ meeting someone as _lovely_ as you? Maybe he’ll glue his mouth shut when he gets home so he never has to suffer through this again.)

Face a little red, Hawke moves to hurry pass Fenris and leave, but stops at the offended look on his face.

“I promised payment,” Fenris reminds him. He carefully shifts Luta around until he can reach into his pocket to withdraw a purse full of coins.

Oh. Oh, Hawke isn’t _that_ angry.

“It’s fine,” he says, waving the bag away. “I’m not going to take your gold for this.”

That only makes Fenris narrow his eyes further, hissing, “I do not need your _charity,_ mage. Take your gold. I owe you more than that as it is.”

“You don’t owe me anything —”

“I do,” Fenris insists. “You have been beyond helpful tonight, for a stranger no less. I am not ungrateful, despite my trepidations.”

“Andraste’s knickers! I was just being a decent person! I don’t need to be rewarded for that,” Hawke tries to explain. Again.

“I pay my debts, serah. Take the money, and know that should you ever need assistance, I will be here. If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he is free to come and fight for it.”

Too exhausted to continue arguing, Hawke gives in and accepts the purse from Fenris, who nods a goodbye. Then he slips past Hawke, stepping into the mansion’s candle-lit entrance and dousing the flame with his fingers.

Hawke will deny to his dying day that he finds the image unbearably hot.

Luta, nestled into her father’s back and fast asleep, obscures his last glimpse of Fenris before the darkness takes hold.

 

—————

 

The next day, Hawke decides to repay an old debt. Flemeth’s amulet is a heavy weight in his pocket as he treads through Kirkwall, picking Varric up at the Hanged Man and Aveline from the Keep. They are the best choices, Hawke thinks, for visiting the Dalish. Them and Fenris, since the elves might be less likely to kill him on sight if another elf accompanies him. Right? Right. So he needs Fenris. This has nothing to do with Hawke’s insatiable curiosity or Fenris’ lovely —

“Seriously, Hawke? You let _Vallen_ watch a kid last night?”

“What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” Aveline eyes Varric dangerously.

“Nothing, nothing. I just hope the poor kid hasn’t been corrupted.”

 _“I_ watched her, not Isabela.”

Varric scoffs at that. “I meant corrupted by your _rules._ Children are young and impressionable. I’d hate for her to be under some kind of delusion that guards are cool and laws should be obeyed.”

“If I was that stern about the law, I wouldn’t be helping you criminals.”

“Aw,” Hawke gushes. “Aveline loves us enough to break the law.”

“Quiet you!” Aveline pushes Hawke as they round the corner to Hightown. He stumbles a little, then retaliates by pushing Aveline back.

Big mistake.

Aveline has Hawke in a headlock by the time Fenris’ mansion comes into view.

“Hey, isn’t that Anso?” Varric points.

It is indeed Anso in the doorway of Fenris’ manor, holding a plank to the frame as Fenris nails a hinge into place. Hawke can barely make out Luta’s form further in the entrance hall; the curtains are tightly drawn, and the shadow obscures all but her stark white hair.

Aveline releases Hawke. Just in time, since both Fenris and Anso look up at their approach.

“Investing in a home makeover?” Hawke asks. “Last time I checked, people only do that if they want to stay.”

“Or if they want to sell. Or hide a horrendous crime. Or —”

“Thank you, Varric.” Hawke tries to subtly kick Varric in the shin, but he misses and nearly trips instead. Fenris raises an eyebrow, and Hawke wishes for a ditch to jump in.

“We’re not renovating,” Fenris explains. “I do not care how many floorboards creak or how much blood stains the carpet, but a functioning door is sadly necessary.” He gestures to a large, bashed-up slab of wood laid out in front of him: the remains of the mansion’s door, apparently. Fenris must have knocked it off its hinges in his haste to reach Luta last night.

Anso nods as he swings the hammer down, saying, “People will loot your home if you don’t lock it up!”

“You mean _you_ will loot it.” Maker, Fenris even rolls his eyes attractively. How is that bloody possible?

“Well, I am a person.” Anso chuckles shakily. He seems as high strung now as he was last night.

Fenris just smirks and turns back to Hawke. His gaze rested on Hawke’s hips.

“You’re carrying a sword… and an axe?”

“Well, there tends to be a lot more bystanders during the day,” Hawke points out. “I have to fight like I can’t hurl fireballs out of thin air or the templars will drag me off to the Gallows.”

Fenris quirks an eyebrow. “You are experienced with blades?”

“He is,” Aveline asserts. “I made sure of it. Of course, I also wanted him to use a shield, but the fool decided he’d just wield another blade instead.”

“Hey, it works, doesn’t it? I’m still alive. Besides, I carry my staff, too. Perfectly prepared for anything.”

Varric steps in front of Fenris suddenly. “I’m Varric, by the way. Since these heathens don’t know manners.”

_Oops._

“Fenris.”

“Yes, I’ve heard. And that’s your daughter?” Varric waves at Luta. She doesn’t wave back.

“Yes,” Fenris says. “Her name is Luta.”

“Nice kid,” Varric mumbles, finally giving up and putting his hand down.

Fenris glares at him a little. “Why are you here, Hawke? I assume this isn’t just a house call.”

“While Aveline does love surprise house calls —”

Aveline grumbles, “Raids, Hawke, they’re called raids.”

“— we’re here to see if you’d be willing to lend a hand with our latest venture.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Fenris takes another plank of wood and places it on the broken door. His eyes shift to the shadowed corridor behind him, where Luta sits cross-legged, silent except for small scratching noises as she carves something into the floor with a butter knife.

“I cannot leave her alone,” Fenris asserts, and Luta’s head perks up, her iridescent eyes fixating on her father through the darkness, “or in a house without a door.”

“I can watch her!” Anso shouts and waves his arms about, nearly slamming the hammer into Fenris’ skull in the process. Only the elf’s quick reflexes spare him.

Hawke’s not sure Anso would be the best choice, especially after that little display. Somehow, Fenris remains unfazed.

“If you are certain that it would be no trouble…”

“Of course!  You know she’s always welcome.”

“Thank you, my friend. I’ll pick her up from your place in Lowtown later.”

“No problem!” Anso sets the hammer down and turns to Luta. “Grab anything you need, kid. We’re hanging out at my place today.”

 

—————

 

The task Keeper Marethari gives them goes as well as expected: a friendly blood mage joins Hawke’s entourage, everyone nearly dies, and Flemeth makes a surprise appearance after traveling to Kirkwall via Hawke’s pocket. Hawke considers it a successful day, all in all.

As for Fenris, his debt is completely repaid. He never has to see Hawke again, never has to step outside the decrepit mansion he has claimed.

Hawke is fine with that.

Really.

Sure, he might miss Fenris’ snappy responses to even the kindest gestures, and Fenris will probably be miserable sitting in the dark all day, and Hawke may never see his glorious —

Yeah, maybe he needs to work on his subtlety, because as Fenris starts to part ways in Lowtown, Varric throws a very knowing, very smug look at Hawke.

“So, elf.”

Fenris pauses. “Dwarf.”

“If you’re looking for extra coin for you and that kid of yours, Hawke and I are trying to fund an expedition. We could use your help with doing odd jobs around town. I promise you’ll get a fair cut.”

Fenris considers this. “I find that agreeable. When you have need, you know where to find me.”

“Right,” says Varric. “In that dusty, shabby mansion of yours.”

“You live in a mansion, Fenris?” Merrill chirps.

Fenris only glowers at her in answer. Then, with a nod to Hawke and goodbyes to Aveline and Varric, he leaves for Hightown.

“He doesn’t like me very much, does he?” Merrill seems heartbroken by this.

“Don’t worry about it, Daisy. He doesn’t really like anyone.”

“He likes you and Aveline,” Hawke points out.

Varric rolls his eyes. “Hawke, everyone likes me —”

Aveline scoffs at that.

“— and Aveline is… actually, that’s a real mystery. Why does the elf like you?”

“Come on, Merrill.” Hawke leads her towards the alienage, leaving Varric and Aveline to their ensuing fight. “Let’s go check out your new home.”

 

—————

 

Two weeks later, Anso finally returns to his trade as a traveling merchant, and Fenris loses his only babysitter. This first becomes a problem when Hawke needs Fenris’ help tracking down a wayward mage.

“I cannot go,” Fenris claims. His stance is strong and stubborn. “I know I offered to aid you, but I will not leave my daughter —”

“I wouldn’t ask you to. Maybe…” Hawke trails off, running through a list of names in his head. The one he settles on seems inevitable. “Maybe my mother can watch her.”

“Your mother?”

Fenris doesn’t seem entirely pleased with the idea. Of course, Anders picks up on that immediately.

“She’s not one of us _mages,_ if that’s what you’re worried about,” Anders snaps.

“Well, that makes it a little better —”

“What!? What the hell —”

“Enough, both of you!” Hawke rubs a hand against his forehead, sensing an oncoming headache.

Maybe bringing Anders _and_ Fenris was a bad idea.

“I want to meet her,” Fenris says, “and I need her to meet Luta as well. If she is not comfortable with your mother, then I must decline… You should know, I do appreciate this offer. Regardless of the outcome.”

“It’s no problem,” Hawke laughs a little nervously. “Mother loves children!”

“I doubt that she has ever met a child like Luta before,” Fenris drawls.

Hawke doubts it, too, and that’s precisely why he’s nervous.

 

—————

 

Thirty minutes later, Leandra Hawke puts her son to shame by gaining Luta’s affection at first sight.

Okay, it’s not that fast, but it sure as hell seems like it. No more than ten minutes have passed since the five of them crowded into Gamlen’s shack — Varric having joined them on the way over — and Luta’s already sharing a biscuit with his mum and asking about their mabari.

(Her name is Marmalade. His father was the one who brought her home one day, still just a pup constantly tripping over her own feet. Marmalade’s habit of sleeping at the foot of Malcolm’s bed continued until his dying breath.)

Hawke is kind of jealous, actually. He’s known Luta for a few weeks now, and she still greets him with a glare. And while the glare is kind of adorable coming from a tiny little girl, it’s still pretty hurtful.

“I think I’m losing my charm,” Hawke mutters.

“What was that?” Gamlen asks.

“I said, ‘You smell like a barn.’ Please do us all a favor and take a bath.”

“Please do,” Carver grumbles from where he sits, chair pushed tightly into Gamlen’s. If he moves away, Anders’ elbow will probably knock out a tooth. Hawke feels for him. Really.

Gamlen sniffs, then flushes red and snaps, “How can you possibly know it’s me? You’ve practically shoved an entire circus into here!”

“I know you mean that as an insult,” Varric says, “But I’m afraid I have to take it as a compliment.”

“Why?”

“Junior, you probably haven’t seen a real circus in your limited experience, so just trust me when I say that it is _spectacular._ ”

“Limited experience!? What’s that supposed to mean!?”

Hawke sighs before elbowing his way out of the group. As rude as it is to abandon Varric and Anders to his family’s awful squabbling, his poor brain can’t handle any more of it.

Instead he meanders over to Fenris and his mother. Luta sits cross-legged on the floor between them, scratching Marmalade behind the ears with wide eyes and biscuit crumbs at the corner of her mouth.

“She is quiet and well-behaved,” Fenris is saying. His voice is calm, but his fingers twitch occasionally. “I do not foresee any problems —”

“Neither do I,” Hawke’s mother reassures Fenris. “Don’t worry, lad. If I can handle three rowdy children, I can watch over a sweetheart like her.”

Fenris blinks, surprised. Hawke wonders if he ever mentioned Bethany to him.

“Thank you,” Fenris says, his voice hoarse.

Hawke’s mother beams at the elf, then at Hawke as soon as she sees him.

“Don’t smile at me like that after you just bad-mouthed me,” Hawke gripes.

“Oh, darling, the bad-mouthing hasn’t even started yet.”

“And now it never will! Bye, Mother.” Hawke gestures at Varric and Anders, ushers all of them out the door before his mother can whip out the truly embarrassing stories.

Before the door closes, Hawke hears a very soft, “Good luck,” beneath Marmalade’s barking. Fenris’ slight smile could be a figment of Hawke’s imagination, but he doesn’t think so.

 

—————

 

So Fenris isn’t happy with his decision to send Feynriel to the Dalish. Anders is, obviously, but he and Hawke already share an opinion on the Circle.

Luckily, Fenris and Hawke’s warring beliefs about mages don’t stop the elf from warming up to Hawke. Hawke suspects that his enthusiasm for freezing the limbs off of slavers helps.

Still, that is not enough. Fenris is guarded; he rarely speaks and never answers personal inquiries. This frustrates Hawke to no end. Despite his hesitation to fall for a single parent, a magnetic pull seems to drag his eyes towards Fenris at every opportunity.

But it is almost impossible to get closer to him. Maybe if they could mingle outside of battles and errands — but they cannot. Since Hawke first met him, the only time Fenris has left Luta’s side is when he leaves with Hawke. All invitations to the Hanged Man have been declined.

Hawke’s relationship with Fenris becomes stagnant, and there is no apparent escape.

At least Fenris seems satisfied with leaving Luta in the Hawkes’ care. It is just Leandra on babysitting duty at first, but after a week of ‘feeling restless’ — whatever that means — Carver takes on some of the responsibility.

And for the first time since — well, probably since his birth, Carver charms someone before Hawke can.

“I’m definitely losing my touch,” Hawke grumbles.

A couple of meters away, Luta sits on the stoop outside Gamlen’s shack, listening avidly to Carver’s rendition of the Battle at Ostagar. Dust and dirt are caked over her clothes, which consist once again of torn-up breeches and an oversized tunic. The belt around her waist has an extra notch cut in it, several inches in from the others; Hawke’s pretty sure it was made for adults.

“What touch?” Anders asks.

“You know, my charm.”

“Oh. Well, it’s not like you had much to begin with.”

“Thanks, Anders.”

“That’s what I’m here for! Reality’s wake-up call, at your service.” Anders gives a mock bow and Varric, the traitor, obligingly claps.

Hawke decides that they aren’t his friends anymore.

After a couple of months of this — of Luta waiting for Fenris at Gamlen’s kitchen table, of her listening avidly to Carver and shyly petting Marmalade’s brown coat — Hawke finally gets a chance to know her better.

It sounds terrifying. He’s kind of pissed at Aveline for it.

“Don’t be a baby, Hawke,” she says and rolls her eyes. “Fenris is helping me and some of the other guards take down a slaver den in Darktown. Now that I’ve been promoted, I can finally take action against those bastards.”

“You could take me with you,” Hawke grumbles.

Aveline simply snorts. Hawke understands; as much as he wants to, he can’t join the new Guard Captain in fighting criminals if her subordinates are there to witness him flinging fireballs left and right. The only likely reason that Brennan and Donnic haven’t thrown him to the wolves is because his magic saved their lives.

And though he’ll never admit out loud, Hawke is fully aware that his skill with blades is average at best. Definitely not decent enough for fighting slavers.

“Fine,” Hawke snaps. “But if she kills me, it’s your responsibility to throw the most lavish funeral ever. I want a parrot that says ‘I’m sad’ and fireworks in the shape of my face.”

“Sure,” Aveline says. She also rolls her eyes at him again, but Hawke decides to ignore that.

Well, maybe he can take this opportunity to get Luta to stop glaring at him. Maybe.

 

—————

 

Hawke was seven years old when his father placed a wriggling bundle in his arms. His mother’s screams had just subsided.

“This is Carver, your new baby brother,” Malcolm told him. “You look after him, Garrett.”

And then he left Garrett with a baby to watch while his mother gave birth again.

Garrett was young, but not so young that Carver’s tiny little fingers and pudgy feet felt anything short of a miracle.

The little bugger ruined it by sticking one of those fingers up Garrett’s nose.

(Bethany was a much nicer baby, calm and full of laughter. Hawke can’t recall his first time holding her in his arms without succumbing to an overwhelming grief.)

 

—————

 

The rickety table in Gamlen’s shack has a deep scratch in it. Hawke stares at it to avoid Luta staring at him.

It’s been ten minutes since Fenris left Luta in his care. Hawke keeps clearing his throat to speak, but never manages to get the words out. Like something is clogging his throat.

It’s very similar to the sensation he felt when he saw that dragon in Lothering.

_And look at how that turned out! The dragon was Flemeth and she didn’t eat you. You’ll be fine this time, too._

The thought doesn’t help much.

The door to the shack opens, and Gamlen shuffles inside. He grumbles, “Oh, it’s you again,” when he spots Luta.

She just glares at him silently.

“Brat,” Gamlen snaps, then stomps into the bedroom and slams the door shut behind him.

Hawke turns back to Luta. Somehow, Gamlen makes Hawke feel better. Braver.

Probably because there is no way that Hawke can look bad in comparison.

“Don’t worry about my uncle,” he says, and Luta’s eyes snap back to him. They’re the same brilliant green color as her father’s, but her eyelashes and her eyebrows are white instead of black. They give her a ghostly appearance. “He must actually like you, because he calls me way worse.”

Luta stares.

“I’d give examples, but I’m pretty sure your dad would kill me if you heard that kind of language.”

He almost has a heart attack when Luta suddenly scowls and speaks.

“Pati thinks too highly of you.”

Hawke blinks at her. “Pati?”

“Father,” she explains.

“Really?” A grin stretches across his face despite his best efforts to stop it. “Thinks highly... you mean that he likes me?”

“Yes. He appreciates your company,” she hisses, like the concept is nastier than the filth under her feet. Filth that Hawke can’t actually see, but the girl walks around barefoot in Lowtown, so it’s got to be there. “I don’t know why. You are a mage, and a man desperate for coin—”

 _Ouch._ “Desperate sounds like a bit of an exaggeration.”

“— and you cannot be trusted.”

Hawke has never heard her say so many words before.

He calmly studies her.

“I won’t hurt you. I could never do that, Luta.” 

Luta glares down at the table. “It is not me that I am concerned about.”

“Well, it _should_ be,” Hawke snaps. Luta jumps in her seat. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. But Luta, you’re a child. I understand worrying about your father.”

(The days spent working to keep the family afloat; the nights at his father’s bedside, witnessing his slow destruction.)

“Believe me, I understand completely. But you shouldn’t throw away your own needs and worries.”

“I’m not!” Luta shouts. She hops off her chair, fists clenched at her side. She’s clearly going for the most intimidating look possible.

Her head is now just under the height of Hawke’s shoulders. And he’s still sitting.

Hawke’s lips twitch.

“I am not throwing anything away!” Luta takes a deep breath. “Pati needs me and I need him. Nobody else.”

Hawke stares at her. Her fists uncurl, and she starts to fidget a little.

“Is this because he’s been busy helping us? If you want more time with him —”

“My problem is not so selfish,” Luta snaps. “I just don’t like him spending so much time in the company of someone he clearly cannot trust!”

Hawke tries to figure out her train of thought. “So, you think the only people you can trust are each other.”

Luta crosses her arms. “Pati told me about all of you. I think a group comprised of a pirate, a blood mage, an abomination, and a dwarf who refuses to speak of his real job, is a group that should not also include my father. At least one of you will betray him at the first opportunity.”

“... Luta, have you been worrying about this since we met? It’s been three months.”

“It is not my place to tell my father what to do,” her voice quivers a little, “but I am well within my grounds to tell you to stay away.”

Hawke sighs, rubbing his face with one hand to relieve some of the building tension.

“There’s really only one way to solve this,” he decides. “If you want to know that your father is in good company, then we’ve got to prove to you that we’re good company.”

Luta stares at him like a bat just sprang from his ear and blew raspberries at her.

Hawke smiles and tries to look encouraging. It doesn’t seem to work. He gives up.

“Look, let’s take a trip to that bakery around the corner and we’ll finish talking there.”

Through the bedroom door, Hawke can hear Gamlen’s muffled shout. “If you’ve got coin to spend on bloody muffins, then you’ve damn well got coin for the food I have to bring home!”

“Shut up, Uncle!” Hawke shouts back. “Stop eavesdropping!”

The only response is an angry grunt.

“Bastard,” Hawke snaps, then remembers Fenris’ kid is in front of him.

_Oops._

Hawke stands and goes to the writing desk. Luta hesitates, then follows.

“Just give me a moment,” Hawke scrawls a quick note on some paper at the writing desk. “There. Just in case your father gets back before we do.”

“Actually,” Luta starts but then abruptly stops, brows furrowing.

“Luta?”

“Never mind,” she says.

Hawke shrugs. “If you change your mind, I promise not to judge. Now let’s get out of here.”

Luta’s frown doesn’t lessen, but she also doesn’t object as Hawke guides her out the door.

“Oh,” Hawke says casually under the afternoon sun, “and how many treats do I have to buy before you promise to never ever let your father know that I said a curse word?”

 

—————

 

It takes five treats.

Varric frowns at the half-eaten plate of cookies on their table. “I don’t think you’re supposed to give a kid that much sugar.”

“Definitely not,” Hawke agrees. “But I don’t want Fenris to find out about my slip of the tongue. He might actually kill me.”

Isabela snorts. “Won’t he kill you for giving her so many sweets?”

…

_Oh shit._

Staring at the three adults, Luta just sits patiently. She hasn’t spoken for the past ten minutes.

After grabbing Isabela and Varric from the Hanged Man on the way over — Corff didn’t even bat an eye at a child entering the tavern, Hawke found disturbing — the four of them entered the cheap bakery. It’s called Baker’s Dozen, a real creative name.

Hawke ordered a plate of shortbread cookies drizzled in caramel. Luta was tentative biting into the first cookie, then scarfed down the next four faster than Gamlen running from debt collectors.

“I’m doomed,” Hawke whimpers, burying his face in his hands.

“You’re an idiot,” Isabela says delightedly.

“Can you refrain from relishing in my pain?”

“Not really, no.”

Varric pats Hawke’s arm. “Don’t worry, Hawke. They’re small cookies. Luta will be fine. Right, Caramel?”

Luta frowns at him. “Caramel?”

“Like the drizzle on these cookies,” Varric says. “I give everyone nicknames. Isabela here is Rivaini, your dad is Elf, Carver is Junior, so on and so forth.”

“What exactly is a… nickname?”

Isabela smirks. “It’s like a second name, basically. Usually just a shortened version of your real name if that one’s too long. For example, I once knew a guy who called me Izzy. Well, until I —”

“We’re getting off subject,” Hawke cuts Isabela off. He doesn’t want to risk it. “I’ve already explained what’s troubling Luta. Can you help?”

Varric clears his throat. “As a wordsmith, it’s only common sense that I be the one to help Luta understand.”

 _What common sense_ , Isabela mouths at Hawke. He laughs.

“I saw that, Rivaini. You two can go sit in the corner if you’re not going to helpful.”

“You sound like Aveline,” Hawke says. Isabela starts guffawing.

Varric shakes head. “Just ignore them, Caramel. Now, you want to know we’re good people.”

Luta doesn’t answer, but that doesn’t deter Varric.

“Well, we’re honestly not.”

Hawke’s jaw drops. Isabela’s laughter gets a bit wheezy.

“This is great,” she chokes out.

“No, it’s not!” Hawke glares at Varric. “I’m trying to reassure her. You’re doing the opposite!”

“Patience, Hawke,” Varric scolds him. Hawke groans and buries his face in his hands again.

When he peeks at Luta through his fingers, he sees a frown.

“We’re not necessarily good people,” Varric says. “Especially Rivaini and I.”

“Hey.” Isabela finally stops laughing.

“You think otherwise?”

No answer.

“That’s what I thought.” Varric sounds smug. “We lie, we cheat, sometimes we’re mean, sometimes we’re merciful, and sometimes we’re straight up vindictive. But you know what, Caramel? We’re also loyal.”

“Speak for yourself,” Isabela mumbles. Hawke, still hiding behind his hands, blindly kicks at her under the table and misses.

A voice, way too close, whispers in his ear, “That’s not how you play footsie.”

Hawke screeches and nearly jumps out of his seat. Isabela snickers at him. Slamming his hands on the table, he hisses at her, “Isabela, you are a _fiend.”_

“See?” Varric says. “We might tease each other, argue and whatnot, but we’re all friends.”

“Not a word, Isabela,” Hawke whispers. She winks but stays quiet.

“And even if some of us aren’t friends with each other, like your father and Blondie, every one of us is friends with Hawke. And Hawke likes your father. A lot.”

_Maker damn you, Varric._

“If betraying the Elf would hurt Hawke, and it would, then none of us will ever do that.”

Luta looks down at the table.

“How do I know that?” Her voice is soft and difficult to hear over the clamor of the bakery. “How do I know you speak the truth?”

Varric chuckles. “Well, you can’t know if we just tell you. We have to show you, too.”

Everyone at the table stares at him. Varric rolls his eyes.

“I mean, you saw how Isabela and Hawke are close, right? He’s an excellent source of entertainment, she’s easily bored. Thus, easy friendship.”

“Thanks for _entertaining_ me,” Isabela purrs.

Hawke just throws a cookie at her.

Ignoring their antics, Varric continues, “Of course, my friendship with Hawke is also easy. Nothing but smooth sailing and fine breezes.”

“Wait, _I’m_ the Captain here,” Isabela snaps. “Why do you get the sailing metaphors?”

“You’re not a captain without a ship, Rivaini.”

A cookie hits Varric in the face.

“Maybe we should stop throwing food,” Hawke says. One of the clerks at the counter is glaring at them.

Both Varric and Isabela point fingers at him. “You started it.”

“Yeah, well, now I regret it.”

Luta, shockingly, is the one that brings them back on subject. She says, “So you three are friends, even though you’re mean to each other.”

“That’s how we show our love,” Isabela winks.

Luta blinks at her. “Fine. Say I believe you. How do I know everyone else is so loyal to Hawke? How do I know Hawke is loyal to my father?”

Isabela starts to say something, and Hawke knows it’s going to be a comment about his fixation on Fenris’... everything. The Maker’s on his side for once, because Varric answers before Isabela can get the words out.

“Well, Caramel, the only way to prove it is for you to see it with your own eyes. So when your father gets back, maybe try asking him if you can get to know us.”

Isabela suggests, “Get him to the Hanged Man to play cards with us. He always says no, but he’ll come if you want to go.”

“We can’t take a child into a tavern filled with criminals.” Hawke thinks he has a sound argument, but the looks on his friends’ faces say otherwise.

“Hawke, you just took her into the Hanged Man,” Varric points out.

“For less than a minute! To get you guys! Staying there and playing cards is a different story.”

“It’ll be fine,” Varric stands up. “Now pardon me, but I still have things to do, people to see —”

“— merchants to cheat, rumors to hear,” Hawke mocks him.

Varric laughs. “I’ll see you later, Hawke. And you too, Caramel. Let’s go.”

Isabela hums in agreement, throwing a wave over her shoulder as she follows Varric out the bakery door.

Taking one last cookie from the plate, Hawke gestures for Luta to follow him. She does so silently, waiting by his side as he clears the table and brings the plate back to the counter. Hawke makes sure to leave a large tip for the trouble earlier.

Once they’re outside, Hawke stops and turns to Luta. She’s so short that she has to crane her neck back and squint into the sun to see his face.

Hawke holds back a smile and crouches down, meeting her at eye level.

“Luta, I think Varric had a good idea. You’d feel better about your father being around us if you knew us better, right?”

She nods. There’s a furrow in her brow still.

“Do you want to ask him if you can both hang out with us?”

This time, Luta shakes her head.

“Oh.” Hawke’s confusion must be obvious, because Luta answers his unspoken question.

“I find the idea agreeable,” she says, “but I cannot request that of my father.”

“Why not?”

She shuffles her feet. “If Pati wanted to see you more, he would have already said yes. He should not have to spend more time with you just to please me.”

Hawke scratches at his beard, trying to follow her chain of thought.

“So,” he says slowly, “I think you are mistaken in a couple things.”

Luta seems taken aback.

“First of all, I’m pretty sure the reason Fenris says no to spending time with us is because he doesn’t want to leave you.”

“... I don’t understand.”

“Well, he doesn’t want to force you to spend time with us. So Fenris spends his free time alone with you, because he thinks that’s what will make you comfortable.”

Luta’s face is outright flabbergasted. Hawke smiles.

“Secondly, he’s your father. He wants to make you happy just as much as you want to make him happy. Like my mother is with Carver and I.”

(Omitting Bethany chills his teeth, and he fights to hide his discomfort.)

Hawke places a hand on Luta’s shoulder. It feels thin and tiny under his palm. He feels a sudden urge to bundle her in blankets and hide her behind armor.

He continues, “Your father will be happy to hear you ask for something, especially if it’s something he can give you. Parents are meant to provide for their kids.”

Luta searches his face.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he assures her. Hawke stands up again, keeping his hand on her shoulder so he can steer her towards home.

They don’t get far before Aveline and Fenris appear, walking in the opposite direction.

“Hawke!” Aveline smiles at him, going in for a hug. “We got every last one of those slavers. How did things go on your end?”

“Good, actually.” He returns the hug, ignoring how her gauntlets cut into his back.

Hawke can see Fenris and Luta talking out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t try to eavesdrop.

“I think I’ll stop by the Hanged Man tonight,” Aveline continues. “I’m in the mood to celebrate.”

That gets Hawke’s attention.

“Really? That’s great! It’s been weeks since the last time you showed up.”

“Well, I’ve been busy. It isn’t easy being the Captain of the Guard in a city like Kirkwall.”

“Hmm, it does tend to be a cesspool of criminal activity, doesn’t it?”

Aveline stands straighter. “Don’t you worry, Hawke. I’m going to change that.”

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Well, I’m going to give it my best effort. Anyways, Fenris,” she calls over to the elf, “are you going to join us tonight? At the Hanged Man?”

Fenris looks up from his daughter and nods. “Yes, so long as Luta can accompany me.”

Aveline’s eyes widen. She looks like the moon just fell from the sky and hit her in the face.

Hawke stifles a laugh. To Fenris, he says, “That’s no problem at all. We’ll see you both tonight, in Varric’s room. You can show up whenever you feel like it.”

After a final nod and a quick goodbye, Fenris leaves them, hand in hand with Luta.

“He said yes,” Aveline breathes out. “Maker’s Breath.”

Hawke lets the laugh out this time.

 

—————

 

A couple hours after sunset, Fenris and Luta show up in Varric’s doorway. Hawke’s been there since the sun first settled on the horizon, as he expected Fenris would want to get there and get out early enough for his daughter. Perhaps Luta doesn’t need an early bedtime?

Hawke just hopes they stay longer than half an hour.

“Well, look who’s here,” Varric greets them. “Come in, take a seat! I was just telling Daisy here about the time I found Bartrand passed out in a fountain.”

Fenris guides Luta to the seat farthest from Merrill and Anders. The seat that everyone left empty on purpose.

Anders rolls his eyes. Merrill is oblivious, too interested in why Bartrand was in a fountain without any pants on.

“Wasn’t he cold?”

“I doubt that bothered him, Daisy,” Varric chuckles. “He was way too drunk to feel anything in his, uh, nether regions.”

“Oh my.”

“Well, I’ve never had that problem,” Isabela croons. “Three bottles of rum and I can still feel —”

Aveline reaches over Varric to smack Isabela’s head. Several cards fall out of her bandana.

“I knew you were cheating!” Anders screeches. He throws his cards on the table, revealing the worst hand Hawke has ever seen. “I’m not paying you, you harlot!”

“Like you could have, anyways,” Isabela scoffs. “Do you even have a single silver?”

“That’s not the point!”

“It’s okay, Anders,” Merrill pats his shoulder. “I don’t have any silvers either.”

Aveline sighs. “Merrill, I don’t think you’re helping.”

Varric throws his cards down, too. His hand is markedly better than Anders’.

“Bloody rogues,” Anders mutters.

“Forget the game,” Varric says. “Caramel’s here to get to know all of us. I think it’s story time.”

“Right!” Merrill chirps. “Bartrand was bottomless in the fountain. What happened next?”

“I think that story would not be very interesting to Luta,” Fenris growls.

“Right. Let’s go with one a little more appropriate,” Varric says. His chair squeaks ominously as he leans back, rubbing his chin in thought. “I actually don’t have many of those.”

“Me neither.” _Isabela…_

“I’ll go!” Fenris scowls when Merrill volunteers, but he doesn’t object. “I can tell you about the halla!”

Luta finally spares Merrill a glance.

“They are these beautiful hooved —”

“She knows what halla are,” Fenris interjects, his voice stiff. “We have crossed paths with the Dalish before.”

Merrill remains undeterred. “So you already know how pretty they are! My story is about Hanal'ghilan, the Golden Halla. It comes to our clans in times of great need.”

“Does it.” Fenris sounds completely uninterested. Beside him, Luta also appears less than enthralled.

“Some say that it is the very first halla that Ghilan'nain ever created. We’re not sure, but I hope to find out when —”

“Kitten, would you like to come with me to the bar? I’ll feel _so_ much better getting another drink if I have someone with me.”

“Of course!” Merrill leaps up from her seat, abandoning her story to escort Isabela out of the room.

Anders stares after the two women. “What just happened?”

Good question.

“Don’t worry about it, Blondie,” Varric says. “Hawke, our fearless leader, how about you bless us with a tale?”

Hawke bursts out laughing. “Wait, you think _I’m_ the leader? You’re the one with the, you know, smooth-talking and wealth and chest hair.”

“None of those things have to do with leadership,” Aveline drawls.

“Fine. Then you’re the leader, Aveline.” There’s no argument against that.

“I’m already the Captain of the Guard, I’m not leading your little band of misfits, too.”

Anders points at her. “Watch it. You’re one of those misfits.”

Aveline rolls her eyes. “Believe me, I’m aware.”

“Hawke.” Hawke kind of loves it when Fenris says his name. “Were you really unaware of your position?”

“What position!?” Hawke throws his hands in the air. “What is going on? Who do you people think I am!?”

“I am being serious,” Fenris says, but the corners of his mouth twitch up. “We always look to you to make the decisions. Surely you’ve noticed.”

Hawke, shaken and unsure of the world, looks down to avoid Fenris’ gaze. His eyes meet Luta’s instead.

She quirks a single eyebrow at him. Hawke has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. Is she challenging him? Laughing at him?

Whatever the case, she looks like a mini-Fenris.

Hawke has to choke back a laugh.

“Fine, okay, I’m the leader,” he coughs out. “Can we move on now?”

“Sure,” Varric agrees. “If you start us off with a story.”

_Fuck._

 

—————

 

By the time Fenris gathers his drowsy daughter in his arms, she has heard enough stories to publish a small book: Hawke’s childhood fishing adventure, when a catfish the size of a baby dragon yanked him into the lake and his father had to drag him back out; the first time Aveline used a sword and accidentally cut off one of her pigtails, and what she did to all the kids who laughed at her uneven hair; how the Hero of Fereldan dared another dwarf to get a griffin tattooed on his ass, and how Anders lost a sovereign betting that he wouldn’t go through with it.

In the end, Hawke has no idea if their plan to win over Luta is working. But it was a fun night, so after walking the elves back to their mansion, Hawke takes a risk.

“Would you like to do this again?” Hawke rolls back on his feet. The motion calms his nerves slightly.

Fenris smiles, one corner of his mouth quirking higher than the other. “I would like to make a habit of it. Luta informed me of how you encouraged her to speak up. I… I am very grateful. More than you could ever know.”

Hawke smiles back, feeling a little bashful.

“It’s no problem,” he says. “I mean, she’s a great kid.”

“She is,” Fenris agrees, looking fondly back at Luta draped over his back, fast asleep.

“I know she probably isn’t sold on us yet, but hopefully she’ll know we have your back.”

Fenris’ smile drops from his face.

“You know that, right?” Hawke asks. “Even if Anders hates your opinion on mages, even if you bite Merrill’s head off every time she speaks, they’ll defend you.”

Fenris huffs. “I am fine fighting alongside the company you keep, Hawke. But I have not stayed out of Danarius’ grasp by placing trust in strangers.”

“We’re not strangers! It’s been three months since we met.”

“True,” Fenris nods. “However, time does not tell me whether you can be trusted. Your actions do. While you have shown great animosity towards slavers, you have also shown great weakness.”

“My hatred for the Circle, you mean,” Hawke bites out. His anger bubbles beneath his skin.

“No.”

That gives Hawke pause.

“What I refer to,” Fenris continues, “is a weakness that I also share. If Danarius appeared before you with a blade to your mother’s throat, and demanded my daughter and I in exchange for her, you would hand us over in a heartbeat.”

Tongue-tied, Hawke just stares at Fenris.

“I understand, Hawke, because if the Templars had my daughter and demanded you in exchange, I also would not hesitate. Our priorities will always be at odds. I cannot trust you, and you should not trust me.”

“Then what was the point of all this?” Hawke snaps. “I thought we were — I thought you wanted Luta to trust us!”

Fenris shakes his head. “I want her to understand that you would not _want_ to endanger us. She knows just as well as I that there may come a time when you will _have_ to.”

Hawke gapes at him. His mind grasps at straws.

This is not what he wanted.

Fenris smiles sadly. “Perhaps in another lifetime, there could have been something like trust between us. But I cannot afford that, and neither can you.”

He turns and steps into the darkness of the mansion, Luta still sprawled asleep across his back.

Finally, Hawke finds his voice.

“You’re wrong, Fenris.”

The elf stops. He turns back to Hawke, his face strangely blank.

“I’m not perfect,” Hawke admits. “Maker knows I’m not. But if you think for one second, that if Danarius threatened my mother, I would let him take you and Luta… then you underestimate me.”

Hawke steps closer. The darkness envelops him, too. Fenris’ eyes are wide and so, so beautiful.

Hawke growls, “I lost my father. I lost Bethany. I _can’t_ lose anybody else. If somebody intends to do you or Luta harm, I will fight until the death to stop them. You may not believe me, but that’s fine. You don’t have to. Because I’ll prove it to you, Fenris, if you stay in Kirkwall. You stay here, and you will see what I can do. What I _will_ do.”

Gaping at him, Fenris doesn’t say anything. Hawke wants to kiss him terribly, but he doesn’t dare get closer.

“I’ll prove it you,” Hawke whispers. Then he steps back into the moonlight, and walks away without a single look back.

 

—————

 

Fenris talks more after that night. So does Luta.

Like with most children, a majority of what Luta says are questions. There’s a curiosity within her that reminds Hawke of himself as child, when he was still just Garrett and his father would perch him on his shoulders, answering all the questions in the world for his son. While Garrett never hesitated to speak, Luta takes time to voice her questions out loud.

Sometimes Hawke can answer her questions without her saying them. When her gaze fixates on something, Hawke follows it and explains whatever holds her attention. Like the escutcheon on Gamlen’s wall. When Luta spends a solid minute staring at it, Hawke sits down next to her and explains that the emblem on it is the Amell crest. He recounts the story of how he found it, after breaking into the basement of his mother’s childhood home. The part where the slavers lost their limbs and heads makes Luta’s lips twitch.

Providing answers makes Hawke one of Luta’s more favored babysitters, a fact that fills Hawke with pride. Probably a lot more pride than truly warranted.

Unlike his daughter, Fenris has few questions, and he provides no answers to anything they ask him. He does, however, prove to be just as surly in his sense of humor as he is in every other aspect of his life.

Hawke kind of loves it.

Another thing that changes is the child-minding roster. Since Luta wants to get to know all of them, Aveline sets up a rotating system that allows each of them turns at watching her, although it takes great effort to convince Fenris that Anders and Merrill are capable of such a task.

Fenris eventually agrees to Anders on the condition that Luta stays within the clinic, where there are plenty of patients. Fenris calls them “witnesses.”

Merrill is even more difficult, thanks to her practice of blood magic. In the end, Hawke has to ask Arianni, Feynriel’s mother, to help look after Luta while she’s in the alienage.

It’s enough of a compromise for Fenris.

Merrill pats Luta’s head — Luta grimaces — and says, “Don’t worry about a thing, Fenris. We’ll paint the vhenadahl! Oh, and I have a June’s knot she can play with —”

“You have a _what,”_ Fenris snarls.

“It’s a puzzle!”

Luta and Fenris share a long-suffering look. Merrill doesn’t notice.

Chuckling, Hawke throws an arm around Fenris’ shoulders — _self-control, Hawke_ — and tries to guide him out of the alienage. “She’ll be fine, Fenris. Arianni and Merrill won’t let Luta out of their sight.”

Fenris grumbles, but finally releases his daughter’s hand to follow Hawke out. Luta waves them goodbye.

Hawke waves back.

 

—————

 

The next few hours see the demise of some mercenaries with bounties on their heads. Hawke receives the reward from Sebastian, a man with the fanciest armor he has ever seen in his life, and leaves the Chantry with Isabela, Fenris, and Aveline in tow.

Hawke tries his hardest to ignore Isabela hitting on Fenris. Can she only speak in sultry tones? Is it that hard to stop flirting with someone!?

Taking a deep breath as they reach the bottom of the Chantry steps, Hawke throws a glare in Isabela’s direction. She catches the look and grins wickedly.

“Well, as nice as it is hanging around with such _adorable_ people, I’m afraid my talents are needed elsewhere,” Isabela says, studying her nails.

“You are such a criminal.”

“Whatever, big girl. I’m not doing anything under your enormous nose, so why bother worrying about it?”

“Hey!” Hawke snaps. “Aveline’s nose is as perfect as the rest of her.”

“Thanks, Hawke.” Aveline sounds very amused.

“Pshh. You’re biased,” Isabela claims. She lets it slide, though, directing one last wink at Fenris. “Bye, sweet thing.”

Fenris mouths _Sweet thing?_ at Aveline, face incredulous. Hawke tries not to show his irritation as Isabela swaggers away from them.

“Pssst! You! Fereldan!”

Rolling his eyes, Hawke turns to see some kind of city official lurking in the shadows.

“I’m in need of assistance, if you’re looking for coin.”

 

—————

 

Hawke has a new job prospect, one he intends to complete tonight, but he decides that Fenris has helped enough for the day. The three of them head to the alienage first, expecting to find Luta in a foul mood after so much time with Merrill.

Instead, they don’t find Luta at all.

A city guard is in the alienage when they arrive, listening to a distraught Arianni with a bored look on his face. Merrill is pouring over a pile of books in front of her house, muttering to herself frantically.

Fenris stiffens. “Where is Luta?”

Merrill whips her head up from her books. There are tears streaming down her face.

“Fenris,” she says, her voice coarse, “Fenris, I’m so sorry.”

“What. Happened.” Fenris speaks through clenched teeth.

“We were at the bakery,” Arianni explains, turning from the guard. “Merrill mentioned that Luta liked the food there. I told Luta to wait at the table while Merrill ordered and I paid. We were gone less than a minute, I swear, but when we turned back, she was gone!”

All the blood in Fenris’ face drains away. “You lost my daughter _. You lost my daughter!”_

With a roar, Fenris kicks a nearby crate, smashing it into a wall and splintering it into pieces. The guard nearby hightails it out of the alienage before anyone can stop him.

“Fenris, we’ll find her,” Hawke interjects. Next to him, Aveline nods.

It does nothing to reassure Fenris. Instead, he turns his enraged gaze to Hawke.

“I _believed_ you,” Fenris hisses. “You said you would fight to the death for her, and I _fucking believed you.”_

Hawke chokes on his next breath in his rush to speak. “I will, Fenris! I meant every word of what I said.”

Fenris laughs. It’s not his pleasant chuckle, but something dark and cynical.

“It doesn’t matter if you meant it!” Fenris snarls. “You could _never_ mean it as much as I mean it! _You_ could never care as much as _I_ care!”

With one last angry growl, Fenris turns from all of them. He bites out over his shoulder, “I should never have entrusted her to any of you. From this moment forward, you will all stay away from her. From both of us.”

With those parting words, Fenris darts out of the alienage.

The world falls apart beneath Hawke’s feet.

 

—————

 

Despite Fenris’ wishes for them to stay away, Hawke, Aveline, and Merrill plan a search.

(Of course they do. Hawke truly did mean what he said. He can see Bethany’s blood spilling across stone in his waking hours. The nightmares are worse. Visions of twisted limbs that he can’t bear thinking about. How could he ever live through that again?)

Merrill’s books, it turns out, contain spells for tracking. Unfortunately, she needs Luta’s blood for it to work. She had hoped to use Fenris’ blood as a substitute, but he’s long gone.

In the midst of Merrill suggesting other search methods — more blood magic — an elf suddenly runs into the alienage. His face is twisted with anguish as he bursts into a nearby home. He comes back out a second later, holding a very flimsy knife.

“Elren!” Arianni exclaims. “What’s going on!?”

“He took her!” Elren shouts. “That bastard’s been killing our children one by one, and today he­ — he —”

“He took Lia?” Arianni’s eyes shine with tears.

“He killed her, Arianni! I don’t care if that magistrate has my head for it, I’m slitting that bastard’s throat!”

Aveline frowns. “What is going on?”

The story comes pouring out. A madman named Kelder Vanard has been abducting and murdering elven children for months, with the guards doing nothing to stop him. While working on the docks earlier, Elren heard rumors of Kelder leaving the city with an elven girl matching Lia’s description. By this hour, Elren believes his daughter is dead.

“Why hasn’t the city guard done something?” Hawke asks Aveline.

“I can take a guess,” she spits out. “I’ve only been captain for a couple of weeks, but it’s been made perfectly clear that raiders weren’t the only ones with Jeven on their payroll. If this Vanard fellow has powerful friends, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to get charges dropped.”

“Do you think this man took Luta as well?” Hawke asks.

Aveline gestures to Elren. “He seems to be more in the know than I am.”

“Right,” Hawke mutters, then asks Elren, “Did any of your sources mention another child?”

Elren scoffs. “They claimed there was, but they couldn’t have been right. There’s no child in the alienage with white hair. It’s absurd.”

Hawke’s heart stops.

“Elren, meet us at the city gates,” Aveline says. “If you can get us to where this Kelder Vanard went, I guarantee as Captain of the Guard that he will not live to see this sunset.”

The elf stutters at her promise, clearly shocked, but manages to say something about ruins on the coast before he dashes out of the alienage.

“Hawke,” Aveline turns to him. “You need to pull it together. Fenris needs you. _Luta_ needs you.”

Air streams back into Hawke’s lungs. He doesn’t know when he stopped breathing in the first place.

Whether this means Luta is more likely alive or dead, Hawke can’t discern. But it’s a lead.

It’s enough.

“Right,” Hawke stands straighter, “Aveline, I want this out of reports, so no guard back up. Find Isabela or Varric at the Hanged Man. We might need some locks picked.”

Aveline doesn’t bother with a reply, already striding away.

“Merrill, I need you to find Fenris. Let him know what we’ve found out, and that we’re headed out of the city to find Luta.”

Merrill nods before slipping out of the alienage.

Hawke turns to Arianni. “If you don’t mind waiting here in case Fenris or Luta return, I would very much appreciate it.”

“Absolutely! Whatever you need.”

“Wonderful,” Hawke says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a kidnapper to rip apart.”

 

—————

 

There are guards outside the ruins that Elren leads them to. Carver readies his sword, uncaring if he looks threatening.

Maybe running by Gamlen’s to ask Carver for help wasn’t the best idea, but Hawke can’t see how his brother could make things any worse. Isabela is also with them, being the first one that Aveline saw when she entered the tavern.

When one of the guards tries to speak to Hawke, he punches the man in the face.

Okay, so Carver isn’t the problem this time.

“Was that a good idea?” Carver asks.

“It’s fine,” Aveline snaps. The guards finally take notice of her — and her furrowed brows and bared teeth — and all of them scatter. “They’ll keep their mouths shut if they don’t want to lose their jobs.”

Hawke doesn’t bother wondering about it. He races into the ruins without delay, only to find too many twists and turns. The others follow him as he tries to find Kelder. Nausea builds up with each passing second.

This is taking too long.

At one point, Hawke opens a door to find a room full of bandits. They start to draw their weapons.

“We’re not guards! Carry on!” Hawke shouts. He slams the door shut again and runs in the opposite direction.

Aveline doesn’t even scold him for it.

They eventually reach what must be the center of the ruins, where spiders, corpses, and a fucking arcane horror appear. Either Hawke or Kelder somehow woke the wretched creatures, a detail Hawke doesn’t dwell on.

Flinging as many spells as he can, Hawke goes through two lyrium potions by the time Carver smashes the last corpse’s head with his boot.

“No time for looting the bodies!” Hawke yells as heaves open the next door.

“What the _fuck_ , Hawke! I know that! I’m a pirate — not an evil demon spawn!”

He’ll have to apologize to Isabela later.

Running through the ruins’ halls again, Hawke feels heartbeat with his entire body, the blood pumping each second. He fears they’ll soon find —

— a body.

Except it’s not Luta. And it’s not dead.

“Lia?” Aveline ventures.

The elven girl looks up from where she kneels. She slowly stands. There’s a bruise on her face, but that’s the only injury.

“Are you alright?” Hawke asks. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Lia shakes her head. “He started hitting me, but he had to stop when something smashed his head from behind. I ran as soon as he turned.”

Hawke shushes her, ignoring the guilt it brings. This isn’t the time for questions.

“Your father is waiting outside,” Hawke says. “Go to him quickly. Run!”

Lia listens, sending a frightened glance over her shoulder as she disappears around the corner.

Hawke doesn’t waste another second. Running as fast as he can, he nearly slips on his feet as he turns the corner. The others are behind him, maybe. He’s not sure. The thump of his heartbeat drowns everything out again.

If Lia is alive, Luta stands a chance.

Hawke runs through a door.

And sees blood.

He almost screams. But the sound stops in his throat when he realizes that the body sprawled before him is too large, the clothes too ornate.

“Hawke?”

Luta steps out from the shadows.

And Hawke can’t help it. He falls to his knees and starts to tear up.

Someone enters the room behind him. “Hawke, what’s wrong?”

“I thought —” Hawke gasps. He can feel a steady stream of tears dripping into his beard, considers wiping them away. He doesn’t. “I thought she was dead. Luta. Luta — I thought you were dead.”

“I’m… not?” She sounds so confused.

Hawke laughs, reaches blindly forward, and pulls Luta into his arms.

“Are you okay?” He murmurs in her ear.

When she doesn’t answer, Hawke pulls back enough to look Luta over. There’s blood dripping from a knife in her hand. A dark bruise has already started to bloom dark violet along her cheek, under a shallow cut. Like a hand with a ring had struck her across the face.

Another tear slips down Hawke’s cheek.

“Luta, I need you to tell me if you’re hurt.”

He can hear Aveline and Carver whispering to each other behind him, and in the corner of his eyes, he sees Isabela crouch down over Kelder’s corpse.

Hawke ignores them. The dark green of Luta’s eyes holds his attention.

“My leg,” she finally answers. “He stabbed me in the leg.”

“He _what?”_ Hawke hisses. “Where!?”

Luta sticks out her right leg, where blood seeps from a tear in her dark brown breeches.

“You pulled the blade out?” Isabela asks. Hawke didn’t notice her finish looting the body, or when she moved to stand beside him.

“I needed a knife,” Luta explains, as calmly as a child speaking of a toy. Calmly like it makes sense for a child to be here at all.

Isabela nudges the corpse with a foot. “To kill Kelder?”

Luta nods. “The rock didn’t deal enough damage.”

“The rock?” Hawke asks. He also hovers a hand over Luta’s wound, saying, “I’m going to use a light healing spell, alright? It might hurt a little, but your leg will feel better afterwards.”

Luta shrugs. Hawke sighs and casts the spell, watching carefully as she grits her teeth.

When the green glow dissipates and he moves his hand away, she points to the ground a few feet away. Hawke sees a hand-sized rock among the rubble, blood splattered on one side.

“Lia said something hit Kelder from behind,” Aveline says. “Was that you Luta?”

She nods.

“Maybe we should talk about this later,” Carver advises. “We need to get her back to Fenris.”

Right. Fenris.

Oh boy.

“Is it alright if I carry you, Luta?” Hawke asks.

Apparently, the hug she allowed earlier was a one-time thing, because she scowls and snaps, “No. I can walk by myself.”

She makes it one step before collapsing on her bad leg.

“Maker’s soggy —” Hawke cuts himself off. “Luta, I’m not a healer. I helped your wound, I didn’t fix it. Just let me carry you.”

Luta’s face twitches.

“If Hawke carries you, you’ll make it to your father faster,” Isabela points out.

Luta sags in defeat. “Fine.”

Taking a deep, relieved breath, Hawke scoops her up in his arms. She’s tiny and doesn’t slow him down at all as he takes her out of the room and away from the gruesome mess inside.

 

—————

 

When Hawke steps out of the ruins and into the setting sun, Elren is waiting with Lia. Both of them appear stunned when they see Luta cradled in his arms.

“But I don’t remem—” Lia starts.

She’s interrupted by a loud shout.

“Luta!”

Hawke lets her down as Luta starts to squirm. She takes a step and collapses.

Hawke doesn’t have to catch her. Fenris is already there with open arms.

“Luta,” he cries. He folds himself around her, cradling her head in his hands as he kisses her forehead, her eyes. Foreign words pour from his mouth as Luta rips her head out of his hands, burying her face in his chest instead.

Hawke looks away. Aveline and Isabela follow his lead, already diverting their attention to the newly arrived Merrill. Carver tries to watch Fenris and his daughter, but Hawke stops him with an elbow to the ribs.

By the time Hawke and Elren have finished speaking, Fenris is standing again. He usually carries Luta piggyback style, but this time he holds her the same way Hawke did: cradled in his arms.

Carver heads over to speak to Merrill and the others while Hawke approaches Fenris.

He clears his throat. “She might have to see Anders to fully heal that injury.”

Fenris turns his gaze from his daughter. His eyes are wide and dark, like Luta’s were, in that room filled with blood.

“I am sorry, Hawke,” Fenris says. His voice sounds hoarse. “I appreciate you finding Luta. I will give every last coin I have to repay you. But… I cannot place her in danger again. I cannot help you anymore.”

Those words kill off whatever hope Hawke has left. He tries to smile, to pretend it doesn’t bother him.

He doesn’t manage it.

“Wait, Fenris!”

Merrill. The one person with consistently good intentions, who consistently makes things worse.

“Leave it, Merrill,” Hawke chides gently. Ignoring him, she plants herself in front of Hawke like a cub in front of its mother. Sweet in sentiment, pointless in practice.

“Fenris, you can’t blame Hawke for this. This was my fault! I’m the one who lost Luta. If you want to punish someone, it ought to be me!”

Rolling his eyes, Fenris says, “I am not punishing Hawke, you —”

“You never lost me.”

Everyone shuts up and stares at Luta, peeking out from her father’s arms.

“You left me at the table at the baker,” Luta continues, staring at Merrill like she has never seen anyone more idiotic in her life. “I chose to leave it.”

Silence.

“Luta,” Fenris says calmly. Too calmly. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“I saw that man say something to that girl. She looked scared but followed him into the alley anyway.”

“You —” Hawke has never seen Fenris direct his snarls at Luta before. It’s no less impressive than his battle face. “If you thought it was suspicious, you should have told Arianni or Merrill!”

“But there was no time!” Luta snaps back.

Nearly everybody gapes at her. Luta never talks back to her father.

This is probably Carver’s influence.

“They were already halfway down the alley,” Luta asserts. “If I hesitated, they would have disappeared entirely.”

Fenris just continues to gape at her.

“I don’t understand,” Merrill says. “How did you know the man was bad?”

Luta shrugs. “He looked like a bastard.”

_Andraste’s._

_Wrinkled._

_Tits._

_Why, Luta!?_ Why!?

Fenris doesn’t say anything, and Hawke panics.

“I swear, Fenris,” Hawke lies through his teeth, “she did not hear that word from me. I never curse in front of her.”

Finally snapping his mouth shut, Fenris looks at Hawke.

“I know,” Fenris says, sounding very bemused. “She heard it from me.”

…

_What!?_

It’s Hawke’s turn to gape now.

“Hawke, I curse all the time,” Fenris reminds him. “Do I seem like the type to care if my daughter follows my example in that? If she offends a group of nobles by mentioning horse shit in front of them, I do not care in the slightest.”

“Luta,” Hawke mutters. “You were the bastard all along.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Fenris,” Hawke clears his throat. “Now that we’ve discovered it was Luta who placed herself in danger, can we persuade you to… stay by our side?”

Fenris sighs. “I’ll consider it. If she’s going to jump into trouble like this, then I might need the insight of someone just as bad.”

That’s good enough for Hawke. He whoops, then stops to think about Fenris’ words. “Hold on…”

Smirking, Fenris turns back to Kirkwall. Luta waves goodbye in his stead, jutting her hand out to the side.

“Fenris, I don’t jump into trouble! _Fenris!_ Stop and listen to me!”

“Oh, no,” Merrill interrupts Hawke’s shouting, “I’ve misplaced my June’s knot.”

Hawke turns to stare at her. So does Carver, Aveline, and Isabela.

“Sorry!” Merrill squeaks. “It was my only one!”

Hawke sighs. Merrill brought very few belongings with her when she left her clan. The loss of even one would probably devastate her.

“Alright, everyone. Let’s split and search. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it back to the city before nightfall.”

 

—————

 

They don’t.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warnings:** physical assault of a child (this chapter), kidnapping (this chapter), ptsd, implied non-con, past non-con, past child neglect, past child abuse, past unwanted/forced pregnancy, talking about gender dysphoria  
>  **background pairings:** Aveline/Donnic, Merrill/Carver, Anders/Nathaniel Howe, casual Isabela/many, past and non-con Danarius/Fenris
> 
>  **Only for people who read Moth's Wings (spoilers for anyone who didn't):** You might remember that I originally planned to have Luta end up with Solas. A large part of why it took me so long to write was because I felt extremely uncomfortable developing their relationship. Although Luta was originally nineteen and thus legally of age, I still felt uncomfortable writing about somebody that young with someone as old as Solas. Solas will end up with Lavellan (much older than Luta) in the sequel to this story, but Lavellan will be an agent of the inquisition, not the Inquisitor. This completely erases my discomfort, so I have the whole thing planned out. You won't see the Inquisition until the sequel, but I promise that it is worth the wait.


	2. Where Mortal Hand Had Lain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke finally raises fifty sovereigns for the expedition. He also learns more about Fenris and Luta, while Luta finds a teacher in an unexpected person. Fenris drinks wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings at the bottom. sorry it took so long, this ended up longer than expected. hopefully the next one will be quicker.

_At a touch, the gate swung wide,_

_And the Light parted before them like a curtain_

_Swept aside by nothing. Fearful to touch them._

_And none saw the black mark_

_Spreading like a sore upon the shining gate_

_Where mortal hand had lain._

                Canticle of Secrets 2:9

 

—————

 

A week after the whole Kelder incident, Hawke has spent a total of fifteen sovereigns on imported wine in a bid to regain Fenris’ favor. After informing Isabela of his plan, he had to endure a solid minute of her laughing. She still looks amused now, leaning over a table at the Hanged Man as she scrutinizes the bottles Hawke brought.

“Fifteen sovereigns,” Isabela says. “Fifteen bloody gold coins. You realize that’s overkill, don’t you?”

“Oh, shove it. I’ve been groveling to Fenris for days and he still won’t budge. Bribing him will make this go much smoother.”

Isabela quirks one eyebrow up. “Or you could, I don’t know, give up?”

Hawke glares at her.

“Right. Silly suggestion.”

“Especially coming from you, the woman who attempts to climb into Fenris’ pants every time she sees him.”

“That’s purely physical. I want his ass. _You_ want his heart.”

Hawke grimaces. “It sounds creepy when you say it like that.”

“It _is_ creepy,” Isabela says. “Romance is gross and pointless.”

“I thought I heard you two.”

Turning around, Hawke finds Varric sauntering over to them. Several of the tavern’s patrons greet him as he passes.

“You’re louder than my uncle’s…” Varric trails off as he nears the table. “Okay. I know for a fact that Corff doesn’t sell anything this fancy.”

“I brought them,” Hawke explains. “Corff let me smuggle them in for a handful of silvers.”

“It’s not smuggling if you have permission,” Isabela says.

Hawke rolls his eyes.

“Why do you have so much —” Varric cuts himself off. “Of course. The elf.”

“Don’t judge me.”

“A little late for that.” Anders appears behind Isabela, his expression a strange mix of glee and displeasure. “I can’t believe you invited all of us for this. Now I have to spend my night off watching you woo the angry elf.”

“I’m not _wooing_ him. I’m _bribing_ him.”

“Sure,” Ander says, voicing dripping in sarcasm. “You bought seven bottles of the best wine Hightown has to offer, just so Fenris will let you babysit his daughter again.”

“And so he’ll help me earn enough for the expedition! Also, this wine is _far_ from the best.”

Hawke saw a bottle worth _two hundred sovereigns_ earlier today. The shopkeeper glared at him just for looking at it.

Varric laughs. “Whatever this wine has cost you —”

“Fifteen sovereigns.”

“— thanks, Rivaini. Those fifteen sovereigns were a chunk of the expedition funding, so I don’t think raising coin is a solid excuse.”

Grumbling, Hawke slumps into one of the chairs. His friends never know when to shut up.

“Hello, everyone!”

Merrill sits down in the chair next to Hawke. Carver is with her, hovering awkwardly to the side.

“I’m so excited!” the elf chirps. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Shocking,” Anders says.

 _“Why_ are we spending so much of our coin on booze?” Carver asks, voice heavy with irritation.

Spotting a flash of white hair out of the corner of his eye, Hawke shushes his brother. Carver snaps his jaw shut just as Fenris reaches their table.

“That’s… a lot of wine,” Fenris says.

“Right? What was Hawke thinking —”

A quick kick to Isabela’s shin shuts her up. The glare she sends Hawke promises revenge.

“Come sit down, Fenris,” Hawke says. “Luta is with Aveline?”

Fenris nods, taking the vacant seat nearest him — the one next to Hawke. Something warm stirs in Hawke’s chest.

“I thought you weren’t letting us watch your daughter anymore,” Varric says.

Fenris shrugs. “Aveline is working in her office. I believe she can keep Luta safe there. And that guard Brennan offered her bed for Luta to borrow for the night, so she can sleep and I can get her in the morning.”

“And you get to drink as much alcohol as you want,” Isabela notes.

“That is the plan,” Fenris says with a smirk.

Feeling a little bitter over the fact that Aveline still has some degree of Fenris’ trust while he does not, Hawke glowers at one of the wine bottles — an Orlesian red. Anders notices and rolls his eyes.

Still staring wide-eyed at the amount of wine, Fenris asks, “What exactly is a wine-tasting? I have only heard of them in passing.”

“I would like to know, too!” Merrill claps her hands. “It sounds like fun!”

“Eh. It’s not as fun as drinking games,” Varric says. “But there _is_ drinking, so…”

Hawke lets Varric explain how it works while he and Anders bring the wine over to Corff. For a few more silvers each, Corff and Norah agree to help. The bartender will pour the drinks, and the waitress will carry them over and judge who guesses correctly.

Returning to the table just as Varric finishes explaining, Hawke takes his seat next to Fenris again. The elf looks a little excited about the contest…

Probably because it’s an excuse to drink a lot of wine.

“We only need to guess which country the wine is from,” Varric says. “Not like in a real wine-tasting challenge. Those people can take a sip and figure out which vineyard it came from and what year they made it.”

“That’s amazing!” Merrill is clearly impressed.

“So we’re doing some sort of baby version of a wine-tasting,” Anders deadpans.

“Hush, Anders,” says Isabela. “Some of us care more about having fun than winning.”

“I don’t believe that. You cheat every time we play cards!”

“I said ‘some of us.’ I didn’t say _me._ ”

The wine-tasting is also made easier by the lack of blindfolds. Even if everyone can see the color of the wine, Hawke doubts that it will work to anyone’s advantage. They’re not exactly a panel of experts.

Norah brings over the first round, and the drinking begins.

 

—————

 

“How did _you_ win!? You live in Darktown! You can’t even afford _cheap_ wine!” Carver slams his hands on the table.

Anders laughs.

He did indeed win, somehow knowing exactly where each wine came from. Fenris and Varric also did fairly well. They each guessed about half the wines. Isabela only identified the two from Rivain, and the Hawkes figured out the two Fereldan ones. Merrill does not guess a single wine, to nobody’s surprise.

The guessing is over, but Hawke gestures to Norah to keep the drinks coming. The wine is too expensive to waste.

Carver narrows his eyes at Anders. “Did you cheat somehow?”

“No way!” Isabela laughs and shakes her head. “Anders can’t even cheat at Wicked Grace.”

“I’m more confused about how poorly you did,” Fenris says to Isabela, ignoring Carver as he continues to hound Anders for answers.

“I don’t really pay attention to how alcohol tastes. As long as it gets me drunk, I’ll swallow it.” Isabela winks. Fenris laughs, and Merrill looks confused.

Deciding to derail that conversation, Hawke demands that Anders tell them how he knew every damn wine.

“One of the Wardens I traveled with liked to do stuff like this,” Anders explains. “Most of the food was incredibly shitty, so she thought making a game out of it would boost morale or something. It didn’t work, since most of what we ate came from either the woods or the slums, but Brosca made us do it anyways. It was good practice for this wine-tasting, though.”

Hawke tries to reign in his excitement. It doesn’t work. “Brosca? As in Warden Brosca, the _Hero of Fereldan!?”_

“Yeah, that’s her.”

Hawke screeches in excitement, and Fenris nearly chokes on his wine. Varric thumps his hand against Fenris’ back as he coughs.

“The Hero likes that sort of thing?” Carver sounds appalled.

“No, no. Surana did. But Brosca was close to Surana, so she made us go along with it to keep Surana happy.”

Anders regales them with a few tales of Surana’s upbeat attitude and Brosca’s unwavering focus, which spurs Isabela into telling her own stories of when she met the Wardens. One of them was Mahariel, Merrill’s clansman and friend, and she shares her stories about them, too.

As the words flow, so does the wine. By the time everyone is either too tired or too trashed to continue, the only two people standing steady are Hawke and Carver — Hawke because a man his size requires shitloads of alcohol to get properly drunk, and Carver because he stopped drinking after a couple of glasses.

“I’ll help Merrill get home,” Carver offers, already steering her towards the door.

Anders groans. “If I have to walk all the way to Darktown, I will vomit.”

“You can stay with me tonight,” Isabela says. “It’ll be _fun._ ”

The last word sounds very suggestive. Anders seems a little intrigued.

“Why not?”

Varric shakes his head, exasperated, as he follows Anders and Isabela towards the stairs.

This leaves Fenris and Hawke. Alone. Together.

Hawke has a feeling this was somehow planned.

“This building is very ugly,” Fenris slurs, staring hard at one of the strange paintings decorating the walls.

Hawke bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “I’m sure Corff would love to hear your critique of his interior decorating any other time, but not when you are barely on your feet. Let’s get you home.”

 

—————

 

Hawke entertains Fenris with a story about Gamlen pissing off Aveline during their first week in Kirkwall. What had started as a small fight about rationing escalated into a dangerous battle of wills. Carver and Hawke had taken Aveline’s side.

They reach Fenris’ mansion mid-conversation. Hawke doesn’t know why — if it’s because Fenris wants to know how Gamlen reacted to the adhesive Carver put in his soap, or because Fenris simply enjoys Hawke’s company — but he’s invited inside. Hawke follows Fenris into the master bedroom, where Hawke usually finds him when he visits.

Fenris settles in his chair as he struggles to remove his gauntlets. Hawke lights the fireplace by hand; he doesn’t want his magic to ruin Fenris’ good mood.

By the time the fire catches on all the logs, Hawke finishes his story with the grand finale: Leandra Hawke giving Gamlen the verbal smack-down of a lifetime. There’s a reason Gamlen tries to hide his visits to The Blooming Rose these days.

It takes a while for Fenris to stop laughing. Hawke thinks the alcohol is making everything seem funnier to him.

“You must be proud of her,” Fenris says.

“Naturally. Mother’s always been amazing.”

The mirth on Fenris’ face slowly vanishes, leaving only a sad, empty sort of look.

“Hawke,” he says, voice forlorn. “Have your parents ever failed you?”

The question seems fairly random, but Hawke considers it with complete sincerity anyways. He always does when he’s speaking to Fenris.

There was the time Hawke nearly blew himself up with a fireball when Bethany distracted their father during their training. And when his mother accidentally used salt instead of sugar for his birthday cake. When his father stepped on and broke his favorite toy, a wooden soldier painted with the colors of the Fereldan army. His mother’s habit of snooping in his personal affairs.

(And deeper, in a part of himself that Hawke tries to leave buried — the part that he locked away after Bethany died and he stopped being Garrett — he remembers the worst. The many times his parents woke him with their arguing, almost always about Leandra’s desire for a more stable life, and Malcolm’s fear of the dangers that would bring. The way that fear laced through Garrett’s childhood like poison; he couldn’t walk past a Chantry for years without his heart nearly beating out of his chest. The times Leandra complained about her lack of a social life. The unwarranted guilt Garrett felt when he heard her, thinking the magic in his veins kept his mother on a leash, isolated from the world just like him.

Deeper still, the day his father died. Malcolm looked Garrett in the eyes and placed the responsibilities of a father, a teacher, a protector on his shoulders. Garrett watched his father draw his last breath and hated him, and for that he hated himself.

And worst of all, the day they all failed. When Garrett watched that ogre lift his little sister in the air and smash her against the stony ground. The way his mother cradled Bethany’s corpse and how furiously she looked at him. The venom in her words.)

Hawke clears his throat. “Of course they have. Nobody is perfect at even the simplest of things, and from what I’ve seen, the whole parenting gig is pretty damn difficult. It’d be stranger if they never failed me.”

After a long pause, Fenris says, “And yet, I believe my failures remain unmatched… I cannot understand what Luta is thinking when she calls me Pati. How can she look at me and see a father?”

Fenris abruptly stops talking and buries his face in his hands. The way he is visibly shaking sends a chill down Hawke’s spine.

“How can she forgive the things I have done? Why does she not _despise_ me?” The words are muffled, but Hawke can still understand him. “All that I ever gave her was a doomed existence!”

Unable to take any more of this, Hawke reaches over and pulls Fenris’ hands away. There are tears streaming down his face, as Hawke suspected, and his lips are twisted into a terrible grimace.

“Fenris,” Hawke starts. His horror is audible, and he pauses for a moment to rein it in. Fenris’ hands feel cold in his. “I don’t know enough about your past to say that you have done no wrong. But I know you now, and I can say without a single doubt that you love Luta, and that you protect her. That you would kill the Maker Himself if it would make her happy. Fenris… You may not be a perfect father, but you are a good one. A great one, even!”

Instead of calming Fenris down, Hawke’s words seem to make him more miserable. He goes from crying silently to full-on sobbing, a great, ugly wailing and gasping that Hawke never expected from the elf who is almost always either stoic or angry.

“You do not _know,_ Hawke!” Fenris chokes out. His hands curl around Hawke’s, grip painfully tight. “The extent of what I have done… The pain I have inflicted on her…”

Fenris lets out a particularly loud wail.

After calming down enough to continue, Fenris says, “One time, when she was only a year old, Danarius —”

The name is slurred, and Hawke remembers the state of things. The alcohol that Fenris drank.

“Stop, Fenris.” He does, clamping his mouth shut. His quickness to obey makes Hawke feel sick. “I will always listen to you without judgment, but only when you are ready to speak. Please know that.”

Fenris hiccups a little. He looks confused.

Hawke sighs. Quickly searching the room, Hawke spots a bed sheet near Luta’s corner of the room — the spot where the walls are etched with a child’s drawings. He slips his hands away from Fenris’ so he can dart over and rip a piece of the sheet off.

Hawke hands it to Fenris, saying, “Here. I don’t carry a handkerchief these days, so this will have to do.”

“Th-thank you.”

While Fenris uses the fabric to staunch his tears, Hawke puts a hand on his back. Fenris tenses. Hawke starts to apologize, but then Fenris relaxes into his touch, leaning back against his hand. He even smiles weakly at Hawke when he starts to rub his back.

Once Fenris’ weeping dies down, Hawke speaks.

“I would have you speak to me only when you’re ready. That means,” Hawke leans forward, looking Fenris in the eyes, “being sober when you do. If you need liquid courage to tell me this, then I can only assume you don’t truly wish to speak of it. Understand?”

Nodding slowly, Fenris hiccups again. Hawke isn’t sure that Fenris knows what he is agreeing to.

“C’mon. Let’s get you into bed.” Hawke feels blood rush to his cheeks as he realizes what he just said. “I mean your bed! Alone. To sleep.”

Fenris drops his makeshift kerchief and mumbles something as Hawke helps him to his feet.

“What was that?”

“Can’t sleep. Not without Luta.”

Hawke isn’t sure what that means — if Fenris simply wants Luta nearby out of habit, or if he needs physical proof of her well-being before he can rest. Maybe a combination of both. Hawke wraps an arm around Fenris’ waist as they teeter towards the bed.

“Luta is with Aveline, remember? She’s safe at the Viscount’s Keep. Probably fast asleep by now.”

Fenris grunts. He somehow manages to pack a lot of disbelief into the sound.

Reaching the bed, Hawke starts to help Fenris settle into it, but Fenris suddenly startles and twists away from the bed and away from Hawke. He loses his balance in the process, falling to the floor before Hawke can catch him.

“Fenris!”

Hawke kneels next to him. He wants to help, but stops at the strange look on Fenris’ face.

“Fenris? What’s wrong?”

Shaking his head, Fenris looks away from Hawke. His shoulders hunched forward and tense.

Hawke licks his lips, suddenly finding his mouth very dry.

“I want to help,” he says softly. “Fenris, all I want to do is help. You’re my friend. You’ve helped me countless times these past few months. Please let me help you too.”

There’s a long moment where Fenris says nothing, just breathes heavily through his nose. He still won’t look at Hawke, but his profile is visible. That unreadable look is still on his face…

Hawke realizes what it is just as Fenris finally speaks.

“We do not sleep in here. We use the guest room instead.”

That’s not something Hawke expected, considering how much larger the master bedroom is, and the fact that Fenris seems to hang out in here a lot. Hawke keeps his confusion to himself, though.

“Okay,” he says instead. “Can I help you up?”

Fenris hesitates, then nods. As gently as he can, Hawke grasps him by the elbows and lifts. Fenris doesn’t stumble this time.

Hawke loops an arm around his waist again, and they shuffle out of the room and into the barely lit hallway. Some of the tension in Fenris’ shoulders eases.

When they reach the bed in the guest room, Fenris doesn’t panic. He lets Hawke ease him on to it, then tries to remove what is left of his armor, a difficult feat when the only light they have is the moon’s. The alcohol just makes it completely impossible.

“Would you like some help with that?” Hawke asks as Fenris tries to unbuckle his chestplate.

Another moment of hesitation before Fenris sighs and nods.

“Alright. Hold still for a moment, please.”

Hawke manages to figure out how to remove the plate, then his leather cuirass, leaving Fenris in his tunic and unfairly tight pants. Or are they leggings?

This is probably something Hawke shouldn’t dwell on.

Hawke helps Fenris under the covers and mutters, “Good night.” As he turns to leave, however, Fenris stops him.

“Wait!” Fenris sits up. “My sword. I need my sword.”

Hawke stares at him incredulously. The word ‘sword’ had come out heavily slurred. He doesn’t know how Fenris expects to properly handle a sword when he can’t even properly speak.

“Fenris, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Or a safe one.”

“I _need_ it.”

Hawk thinks of the traps in the foyer, of how Fenris had disarmed them. Hawke doesn’t know how to reset them. “Would you like me to stay the night?”

Fenris’ eyes shine in the darkness. Hawke sees them blink.

“I can sleep on the floor. There’s got to be plenty of blankets for a makeshift bedroll,” Hawke offers.

“... You would do that?”

“Sure!” Leandra will not be happy in the morning, when her son finally returns home after neglecting to tell her where he was. But Hawke can survive that.

Fenris says, “Thank you, Hawke.”

And Hawke thinks, _This is worth anything._

——————

Hawke wakes to the glare of the sun and a very loud groaning.

Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, Hawke glances at his surroundings and remembers what happened.

“Fenris?”

More groaning answers.

Hawke, now worried, leaps from the blankets he had piled on the floor. Fenris isn’t in the bed, and Hawke is about to run out of the room in a panic to find him, when more groaning comes from the other side of the bed frame.

Hawke peeks around it to see Fenris lying on the floor, clutching his head.

“Are you alright?” Hawke asks. “Did you fall out of bed?”

More groaning, then, “Just kill me now.”

Hawke winces. “Bad hangover?”

“The _worst.”_ Fenris sits up enough to look at Hawke. “Did Isabela spike the wine with rum or something?”

“... It’s certainly possible.”

“Then wait to kill me until _after_ I kill her.”

Hawke laughs. He leans down to offer Fenris a hand. A flash of joy races through him when Fenris accepts it without hesitation.

After Hawke helps him to his feet, Fenris slowly makes his way to his armor. Hawke watches incredulously as the elf sluggishly straps on his leather cuirass.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting on my armor.”

Hawke rolls his eyes at the smirk on Fenris’ face. “Right. Thank you, Captain Obvious. _Why_ are you doing that?”

Fenris moves on to his chest plate and says, “It is past sunrise. I need to pick up Luta.”

“... No offense, Fenris, but are you sure you’re up to it? You look like you might keel over any second.”

Fenris snorts. “Flattering. I will make it to the Keep just fine, Hawke. I want to see Luta as soon as possible.”

“Well… How about I come with you?” Hawke suggests as he starts to gather his own armor.

“I do not need an escort.” Fenris seems amused at the thought.

“Not to protect you!” Hawke says quickly. “But if you have to stop and puke, I can hold your sword for you or something.”

Fenris laughs at that. “Do as you wish. It’s not far, anyway… And Hawke?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for last night. I… was not myself.”

“No thanks necessary,” Hawke assures him.

 

—————

 

It really isn’t far. About a minute after they walk out the mansion doors, Fenris and Hawke reach the stairs to the Viscount’s Keep.

“Why do they have two bloody sets of stairs?” Hawke asks. He doesn’t have a problem climbing them — if he can outrun bandits and Templars on a daily basis, he can damn well climb some stairs — but it takes an annoying amount of time.

“It could be worse,” Fenris says.

“How?”

“Hmm… You could have no legs to climb with in the first place, like a snail.”

_What the fuck!?_

Hawke bursts out laughing.

“Or the stairs could be covered in hot coals, or rusty nails, or spiders.”

Hawke gasps. “Not spiders!”

“Good thing these are just normal stairs, then.” Fenris smirks. “No spiders in sight.”

They reach the Keep, and as a guard heaves the doors open for them, Hawke informs Fenris, “Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Trust me. Spiders are _everywhere.”_

Fenris’ laugh is cut off by Aveline’s shout.

“There you are!”

Aveline is standing by the doors to the barracks, her foot tapping impatiently.

“My apologies. I felt worse than expected this morning,” Fenris says. The three of them enter the barracks together.

Aveline sighs. “It’s fine. I just really need your help getting a situation under control.”

“A situation?” Hawke asks.

“Yes. Involving Luta.”

Fenris whips his head around to stare at Aveline. “What happened!?”

“Calm yourself, Fenris” Aveline says. “Luta is in no danger. She… Just come and see for yourself.”

Aveline leads them to the dining area, where several guards are looming over a table. Aveline clears her throat, and upon spotting her, most of the guards disperse. One man actually starts to stretch, like that will convince Aveline that he just finished a rigorous training exercise. Hawke snorts.

“Captain Aveline!”

Brennan, out of her usual armor, is still at the table. She waves them over. With the guards out of the way, Hawke finally sees what captured their attention.

Luta is seated at the table, and in front of her is a lock picking set, as well as several chests and coffers. Most of them are open.

Fenris walks over and rests a hand on Luta’s shoulder. She twists in her chair to hug his waist, and Fenris smiles gently as he returns the gesture. Something warm flutters in Hawke’s chest.

Fenris keeps one arm around Luta as he considers the opened coffers. “You opened all of these, Luta?”

She nods. Fenris looks impressed.

“My guards have been neglecting their duties to watch her lock pick,” Aveline says, disapproval heavy in her voice. “More importantly, certain people have been teaching your daughter criminal skill sets.”

“Yes, I know. I asked Isabela to teach Luta how to pick locks a couple of months ago.” Aveline’s jaw drops. Fenris ignores her and says to Luta, “I take it lessons are going well?”

Luta nods, then gives a beaming smile like a sunflower opening under daylight. It’s an adorable expression. And far too rare.

“Isabela says that I am a natural,” Luta tells her father. Fenris ruffles her hair, smiling too, though his is much softer.

Brennan snorts. “She’s a natural, alright. These are confiscated boxes. We’ve had trouble opening them for weeks.”

Fenris turns a sharp gaze to her. “Isn’t that dangerous? What if these were cursed or warded?”

“Nah, they’re fine. We have Circle mages check all confiscations as soon as we can. Luta’s only been picking the locks, anyways. I’m the one actually opening them.”

“I want it on record that I did not approve of this,” Aveline growls. “Neither Luta nor Brennan saw fit to tell me anything about it until I caught them in the act a half an hour ago.”

“You want it on record that a child managed to get her hands on confiscated goods, in the guard barracks, without your knowledge?” Hawke can’t help but laugh. Aveline shuts him up with an elbow to the ribs.

“Hm. I would appreciate it if you would keep Luta away from potentially dangerous objects.” Aveline nods at Fenris’ words. “But if you have normal, safe locks for her to practice on, I would not mind.”

That Aveline does not agree with, judging by her scowl. But she keeps silent.

“Deal,” Brennan says. She shakes Fenris’ hand and ruffles Luta’s already messy hair before leaving, punching Hawke in the shoulder as she passes. Hawke grimaces. That was a lot harder than necessary.

“Luta, go thank Brennan before she gets too far,” says Fenris.

Luta nods and slips out of her chair, then scurries across the room to fling her arms around Brennan’s back. Hawke can’t tell if Luta’s trying to hug her or just stop her, but either way it works. Brennan bends down to Luta’s eye level to say a proper goodbye.

Fenris says to Aveline, “I would like to thank you as well. I appreciate your help, especially now that you have no reason to provide it.”

“What do you mean, ‘No reason’?” Aveline snaps at the exact same time that Hawke asks, “Of course there’s reasons.”

“Well… I told you I may not help earn any more coin,” Fenris says, confused. “If my time away from Luta is not spent doing that, then you have no reason to watch her for me.”

Hawke stares blankly at Fenris. Aveline reacts faster, grabbing Fenris by the bicep.

“We need to talk in private,” she mumbles. Then, louder, “Brennan! Watch Luta for another minute!”

Brennan hollers in joy, and a few other guards nearby also look pleased. Apparently Luta has them all wrapped around her finger. Unsurprising, since she is more adorable and polite than the people the guards usually deal with.

Aveline pulls Fenris across the hall and into her office. Hawke follows.

“Hawke, can you close the door?”

He does. As soon as the door clicks shut, Aveline releases a loud sigh.

“What is this about?” Fenris asks. He looks on edge. Unnerved.

“About your poor understanding of how this works,” Aveline says.

Fenris glares at her. “My ‘poor understanding’?”

“She’s not insulting you, Fenris. At least, not on purpose,” Hawke interjects. “Look, we’ve known each other for how long?”

“Five months and two weeks,” Fenris answers. His cheeks flush a little when Aveline raises an eyebrow.

“Right,” Hawke says. “Five months. And during these months, have we been silently completing job after job? Going our separate ways as soon as we’re done?”

“No…”

“Why is that?”

“... Because Luta wanted to know more about the people hiring me.”

Hawke actually slaps himself on the forehead. Fenris looks at him like he grew a third head and slapped _that_ in the face instead.

“Oh, Fenris,” Aveline says, exasperated and fond. “We were already getting to know you before that. Watching Luta started as a necessity, but —”

Hawke cuts her off. He’s sick of beating around the bush. “We do these things because we want to. We’re your friends, Fenris. We like helping you.”

Fenris’ gaze stays on Hawke, even as Aveline says, “It’s the same with Luta. She’s a good child. A pleasure to have over, really.”

“You said something like that last night, before we went to bed,” Fenris says, clearly speaking to Hawke. “That you just wanted to help.”

Hawke flushes at the wide-eyed look Aveline gives him. He clears his throat. “Yes, well, I meant it then and I, uh, mean it now.”

 _Smooth_. And he’s usually so charming, too. What is it about Fenris that makes him tongue-tied in front of others? Hawke never fumbles like this when it’s just the two of them…

Fenris looks down at his feet. His hair falls in front of his eyes.

“We’ll keep helping you,” Aveline promises. “Even if you never work with us again.”

Hawke quickly adds, “If you’ll let us. We won’t force ourselves into your life.”

There’s a moment of silence. Hawke leaves it be, willing to give Fenris the quiet he needs for as long as he needs it. Aveline is also silent. Although, the way her eyes flicker between Hawke and Fenris speaks volumes.

Finally, Fenris looks back up and takes a deep breath. “I’ve made my decision. You… you have my trust, in caring for Luta. For now, at least. And if you trust me in turn, I will lend you my sword.”

 _Yes!!!_ Hawke nearly jumps for joy. The past week was full of uncertainty, of wondering if Fenris would still be willing to speak to him the next day. The relief is so strong and empowering, Hawke feels like he can fight a hundred spiders and win.

A hundred normal spiders. Not giant ones.

 

—————

 

Fenris agreed to help Hawke with some odd jobs the very next day. Aveline offered the guard barracks as a meeting point again, and told Fenris to come early, as she had more to discuss with him. So when next morning comes and Hawke strides into the guard barracks again, he is not surprised to find Luta, sitting in a chair in the common area and staring at her knees.

What does surprise him is the shouting match unfolding in Aveline’s office. The closed door muffles the voices a little, but Hawke can still make out the words.

“— not right, Fenris!”

“Do not tell me how to raise my child!”

“Well, you have to do something! She put herself in danger! You have to teach her that such behavior is unacceptable!”

Hawke winces. The argument doesn’t sound pleasant to him, and Luta can clearly hear every word. While her face remains as blank as ever, her hands are clenched in her lap. Hawke can see how white her knuckles are from several feet away.

“If I wanted your opinion, _Captain,_ I would have asked you for it. How I discipline my child, if I discipline my child — none of it is your concern —”

“— I disagree! As Captain of the Guard, it is my duty to ensure the safety of Kirkwall’s citizens. That includes your daughter —”

Slumping into the chair across from Luta, Hawke heaves a very dramatic sigh.

“Somebody’s always yelling,” he gripes, loud enough that he drowns out the shouting in the other room. “And somehow they’re always yelling in front of _me_.”

Luta raises her gaze to him.

Hawke continues, “If there has to be yelling, why can’t it be about something interesting? Like King Calihad, or the return of dragons, or even a spider’s gallbladder.”

Luta blinks and says nothing. Hawke has a feeling that the argument in the other room is to blame for her steadfast silence.

“Do spiders even have gallbladders?” Hawke asks.

He genuinely has no idea, but more importantly the question is strange enough to gather Luta’s complete attention. Her brows furrow in thought. Or annoyance. It’s hard to tell.

“It’s a scary thought, isn’t it? Spiders are already creepy, but for some reason, I think gallbladders would make them a thousand times creepier. That’s the last thing the world needs. _Creepier_ spiders.”

Before Hawke can continue his soliloquy on spiders, Aveline’s door swings open. Fenris storms out, followed by the Captain herself. Both look flushed and tense.

“Good morning!” Hawke greets them. It sounds more sarcastic than he intended.

Fenris responds with an angry grunt. Aveline just nods tersely.

Despairing at the thought of spending his day with these two in snits, Hawke stifles a groan. Maybe he can sneak a drink at the Hanged Man when they drop Luta off and pick up Varric. The buzz may help his nerves a little.

The entire walk to Lowtown is spent in silence. Hawke awkwardly tries to initiate conversation a few times, but Fenris stubbornly looks away from him, Aveline just clenches her jaw, and Luta is still quiet. Hawke gives up.

He wishes the friendly bonding from yesterday was still alive and kicking.

Inside the Hanged Man, they find Isabela leaning against the bar. There’s no ale in her hand, or any empty mugs on the counter.

“Isabela!” Hawke practically cries in relief. He hates silence.

Smirking, Isabela replies in a much calmer manner, “Morning, Hawke. What’s up with these two grouches?”

She nods at Fenris and Aveline, who have severe scowls on their faces.

“Mind your own business,” Fenris snaps, “and I’ll mind mine.”

“Is that a _threat?”_ Isabela purrs.

“It can be!”

Her smirk widens. “And I thought you didn’t know how to sweet talk a woman.”

“Isabela…” Hawke warns.

Rolling her eyes, Isabela kicks lightly at Hawke’s foot.

“Relax, you big baby.”

“Of the two of us, I really don’t think I’m the one that deserves to be called that,” Hawke says.

“Well, there’s a reason nobody thinks you’re the smart one.”

“You —”

“Enough!” Aveline slams her fist on the counter. Her gauntlet leaves a deep gouge in the wood. “I have a lot of pent up aggression that requires an outlet, and I am not waiting for you to finish your little pissing match! We leave now, Hawke!”

“... Okay?”

Isabela laughs. “Go on, then. Luta will stay here and have fun with me. Right, darling?”

Shyly tucked against her father’s leg, Luta nods wearily.

“You will be fine, Luta,” Fenris tells her. “You know what to do should there be trouble.”

Aveline huffs, and Hawke glares at her. Luckily, Aveline leaves it at that.

To Isabela, Fenris says, “I have no problem with Luta leaving this… hovel, as long as you stay within Lowtown and Hightown.”

Isabela grins gleefully. Personally, Hawke believes Fenris shouldn’t give Isabela such free range. Luta might be safe, but who knows what kind of debauchery she’ll witness? Hawke has the wisdom to keep his opinion to himself, though. The rift between Aveline and Fenris is evidence of how poorly Fenris responds to criticism.

Fenris doesn’t hug his daughter goodbye, but he does at least take her hand in his, squeezing gently. After a few words — foreign, probably Tevene — Fenris releases Luta’s hand.

Varric appears then, Bianca slung against his back. “Later, Rivaini, Caramel.”

Hawke looks over his shoulder on his way out the tavern door. Isabela catches his eye and winks at him. Luta has a hand raised — not waving, just paused in mid-air.

The look on her face… She looks fragile in a way Hawke has never seen before. Fragile in a way that Luta had not been when she was too wounded to stand, nor when she stood over Kelder’s body, knife still dripping blood.

Hawke closes the door behind him and tries not to think about it.

 

—————

 

“Sooooo… are we just going to pretend nothing happened with that Kelder guy? It’s been over a week and nobody has given me any details.” Varric asks.

A couple of angry grunts are his only answer. Fenris and Aveline are still not speaking, hours after their little spat.

“Lovely,” Varric grumbles. “A story with pure poetic justice, and you all want to leave it untold.”

“Poetic justice?”

“Well, sure! A villain who kills elven children is struck down by an elven child? Actually, forget poetry. It’s practically music!”

“Ah,” Hawke says, like he understands. (He doesn’t.) “Didn’t Isabela tell you everything? She was there.”

“Not yet. I was going to ask the other night, but she was, uh, a little _busy_. You know. In the way that Rivaini is usually busy.”

“I get it.” Hawke rolls his eyes. Isabela and Anders hooking up for some casual sex isn’t particularly surprising or, in his opinion, interesting.

Fenris growls, “Dwarf, if you want to keep your head attached to the rest of your short, hairy body, then I suggest you stop prying.”

“Damn.” Varric’s eyebrows jump up to his hairline. “All right then. No need to bite my head off, elf.”

An awkward silence falls on them, broken only by some sniffling, courtesy of Saemus. The Viscount’s son has been silent and distant. No doubt lost in thought about what happened on the Coast.

As they climb the stairs to Hightown, Hawke sneaks a glance over his shoulder. Saemus holds his head high despite the tears still drying on his cheeks. Nobles turn and stare as they enter the shopping bazaar. 

Suddenly, Hawke hears a familiar voice, unexpected in this part of the city.

“— quality. Of course, you seem the type of man who has high quality _everything_.”

A few feet away, Hawke spots Isabela leaning over a merchant’s display. Her arms are pressed up under her breasts in a way that makes her already ample cleavage even harder to ignore. Sure enough, the merchant's eyes are locked on her chest; Hawke doubts the man has even noticed the small elven child by Isabela’s side.

Hawke notices, though.

Plastering on a fake smile, Hawke marches up to the stand. “Isabela! What are you doing?”

“Not now, Hawke,” Isabela grits out through her teeth. Her own fake smile remains unwavering.

Fenris appears at Hawke’s side, Aveline and Saemus only a step behind. Hawke expects Fenris to scold Isabela, but the elf says nothing.

“Isabela, so help me…” Leave it to Isabela to upset an already irate Aveline.

Opening her mouth to respond, Isabela is cut off by Luta, who appears to have sensed the tense atmosphere and thinks explaining will help. “Isabela is flattering the merchant so he will lower the prices.”

Luta says it too loudly. Everyone within a few feet can hear her.

Including the merchant.

“Out!” He hisses, his face glowing red with either anger or embarrassment. Or both. “Get out! You’ll see no price changes here, you sl—”

Isabela snaps right back. “What do you mean, ‘get out?’ This isn’t a shop, you dumb pile of nug shit. It’s a stand. We’re _already outside._ ”

“You —”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Hawke grabs Isabela by the shoulders, manhandling her away from the stand and into a more quiet section of the market. The footsteps behind him let him know that the others are following. “Calm down, Isabela.”

Huffing, Isabela rips herself from Hawke’s hold.

“We need to have a little chat about honesty and how utterly _useless_ it is,” Isabela says, pointing a finger at Luta, who stands at her father’s side with one hand clutching his cuirass.

“Stop that! No corrupting the girl,” Aveline snaps.

“I’m sorry, I forgot that you’re in charge of what Luta learns. Oh, wait! You’re not.”

Aveline growls.

Glancing at Fenris to gauge his reaction, Hawke is surprised to find an amused look on the elf’s face.

“Why are you crying?” Luta suddenly asks, her quiet mood from earlier apparently gone. Everyone looks at her, then follows her gaze to Saemus, who flushes under the attention.

Fenris sighs. “Luta…”

“It is alright, serah,” Saemus says. He sniffles and clears his throat. “I would be curious too if I saw a boy my age in the streets in tears.”

Turning to Luta, Saemus explains, “My friend was murdered by mercenaries today. I am grieving over his loss.”

A peculiar expression flashes across Luta’s face, and disappears before Hawke can figure out the meaning of it.

“He was called Ashaad,” Saemus continues. “I spoke to him often along the Wounded Coast. He taught me about the Qun…”

Saemus trails off, a fresh wave of tears sneaking out. Hawke feels bad for him, but there’s nothing that can be done.

“Shok ebasit hissra.” Luta says to Saemus. “Meraad ast — as…”

Faltering, Luta looks up at Fenris. He smiles at her and takes over. “Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.”

Everyone gapes at the elves. Saemus especially appears to be in awe.

Isabela asks, “What was that gibberish?”

“Qunlat,” Fenris says.

“You speak the language of the Qun?” Saemus practically has stars in his eyes.

“Some. That particular phrase is something they say for the departed.”

“Why do you know _Qunlat?”_ Isabela appears strangely annoyed.

“The Imperium has been at war with the Qunari for centuries,” Fenris reminds her. “I have come across them often enough to pick up some of their language. And when the opportunity arose, I started to teach Luta. She is still learning...”

Apparently deeming the adults’ conversation unworthy of her attention, Luta returns to staring intently at Saemus. He responds by keeping his head high. His tears seem to slow down, at least.

“Why are your garments so nice?” Luta asks.

Blinking in astonishment, Saemus looks down at his clothing, then back up at Luta.

“... Because I am the Viscount’s son? My father and his _advisors,”_ Saemus spits the word out like it’s poison, “would have me wear nothing drabber than this.”

“You’re wealthy?” Luta seems weirdly shocked. “Then why are you with Hawke?”

Varric bursts into laughter.

“Hey, now,” Hawke protests, “I can have wealthy friends.”

The disbelieving look on Luta’s face says otherwise. It’s the same look that Fenris often gives Hawke after hearing about whatever task lies ahead of them.

Hawke thinks it’s adorable, but also a little mean.

“Serah Hawke and his friends saved me from the mercenaries that murdered Ashaad,” Saemus says. “They are escorting me back to the Keep.”

“Oh.”

Isabela rolls her eyes. “Well, you lot have fun doing that. Luta and I are getting back to our lesson.”

“Lesson?” Hawke asks.

“I’m teaching her how to barter.”

“Not with your _techniques,”_ Aveline says.

“Yes.”

_“No!”_

_“Yes!”_

“Leave it, Aveline!” Fenris loses his patience. “I will not censor my daughter. Whether she will hear Isabela’s methods or not is entirely up to her.”

Aveline narrows her eyes. “She is a child!”

“And yet she has seen more than most adults!” Fenris rests a hand on Luta’s head. He can’t do more than that with his gauntlets on, but Luta doesn’t seem to mind. “There is no point in trying to hide the truth of the world from her. She already knows it.”

“So you think she should be confronted by it at every opportunity? Luta deserves better than —”

“Enough!” Hawke steps forward, blocking the glares that Aveline and Fenris are giving each other. “This is not the time or place.”

Fenris scowls and looks away, while Aveline seems ready to start yelling at Hawke, too.

Isabela notices this as well. She says very quickly, “You know, Luta and I are just going to hightail it out of here. See you later!”

Isabela grabs Luta by the arm, and before anyone can protest, bolts through the square towards Lowtown.

This startles Aveline into shutting up, at least.

“... Let’s get a move on, too.”

“Great idea, Varric!” Hawke gently nudges Saemus forward. “The Viscount awaits. Chop, chop!”

Varric takes the lead. Saemus trails behind him, and Hawke stations himself between Aveline and Fenris. Just in case.

An awkward silence falls again, and it is not until they are reaching the first stairs toward the Viscount’s Keep that Saemus breaks it.

“That was your daughter, serah?”

Fenris nods.

“You must be proud. I have never heard someone that young speak so eloquently,” Saemus says. “Although, I have not met many children, being confined to the Keep all these years…”

Saemus is right. Hawke hasn’t considered it these past few months, but Luta does not speak like the children back in Lothering, or the way Bethany and Carver spoke when they were little.

(Bethany was always outspoken, cheerful, the opposite of her twin — the grumbling boy who complained more than he smiled. When Hawke hears demons speaking in his dreams, their words are in Bethany’s voice.)

Fenris shrugs. “She is not as young as she appears. And she picked up my habit of speaking formally.”

“How old is she, anyways?” Varric asks. “You’ve never mentioned.”

Clenching his jaw, Fenris hesitates for a moment, then says, “She is nine.”

“Nine!?” There is no trace of her previous anger in Aveline’s tone, nor in the startled look she gives Fenris. _“Nine!?_ She barely looks seven!”

“She is small for her age,” Fenris says, staring at his feet.

Aveline can’t seem to get over this new information. “Nine…”

“I’m not surprised,” Varric boasts.

“Probably because dwarves are used to smaller children. Right?” Hawke pats Varric on the back.

“Bianca misses you, Hawke. Want to talk to her face-to-face?”

Laughing, Hawke puts his hands up in defeat.

Still, despite all the joking and the distractions as they return Saemus to the Viscount and explain what happened, something creeps along the back of Hawke’s mind. Some kind of dread…

He’s not sure why.

 

—————

 

“We need to talk,” Aveline says.

Staggering, Hawke dramatically clutches at one of the Keep’s banisters. “Are — are you breaking up with me?”

Aveline rolls her eyes. “You are a riot, serah. Seriously, though…”

“Have fun with your scolding,” Varric says. “C’mon, elf, I’ve had enough of Hightown for the day.”

“Bully for you. I live here.”

“No, you _squat_ here. But if you’re interested in a permanent arrangement…”

Varric’s voice trails off as he and Fenris walk away. Aveline nudges Hawke towards the guard barracks, and he obediently follows her to her office.

Hawke raises an eyebrow when Aveline closes the office door behind them. “Should I be worried?”

“No. Well, yes.” Aveline sighs, leaning against her desk. “It’s about Luta. And Fenris.”

“About why you two were at each other’s throats all day?”

Aveline grimaces.

“You _were_ ,” Hawke says defensively. “Normally if I wanted to deal with that much tension, I’d invite Fenris and Anders along. What did you argue about this morning?”

“It wasn’t an argument at first. I informed Fenris of our confrontation with that magistrate —” That bastard Kelder’s father, Hawke remembers, “— and how you took the blame for his son’s death. For which Fenris seemed very grateful, by the way.”

Hawke scratches the back of his head. He hadn’t seen any other solution when the magistrate had appeared, spitting mad and looking for blood. There was no blighted way that Hawke would let the man seek revenge against Luta. So he lied and said that Kelder died by his hands.

Aveline continues, “Then I told Fenris about my decision to keep Luta out of the official reports. Oh, don’t give me that look. I want to protect her too, you know.”

Hawke huffs out a little laugh. “I know.”

“Fenris thanked me. It was all perfectly polite and friendly… until I mentioned that Luta could not do anything like that again. Fenris told me she wouldn’t, and I asked him what punishment he came up with to ensure that.”

Aveline sighs. She stares up at the ceiling, like the Maker will appear from on high at any moment to grant her peace.

“Fenris hasn’t punished her, apparently. He said Luta simply promised him to never again endanger herself... I’m not proud of what I did next.”

Hawke walks over to Aveline, placing a hand on her shoulder. She leans into the touch.

Aveline mumbles, “I yelled at Fenris. I told him he was being naive, that Luta needed discipline or she would never learn. He started shouting right back. I should have expected that, I guess. Fenris has a stubborn streak a mile wide.”

“He’s not that bad,” Hawke says.

Aveline snorts, then shakes her head. “You would say that. As far as you’re concerned, the sun shines out of Fenris’ ass.”

“That’s not true —”

Aveline ignores him. “Anyways, I want to talk to you about Luta’s behavior. It’s not normal for a child to go after suspected kidnappers on their own. And it’s even less normal for a child to react with such violence.”

“Is that really any of our business?”

“Don’t give me that!” Aveline snaps. “You constantly stick your nose into other people’s business, Hawke. You’re just afraid of stepping on Fenris’ toes.”

“I am not!”

Aveline scoffs, and Hawke starts to get angry, too.

“Luta killed the man in self-defense,” he points out.

“Maybe the first couple stabs were in self-defense,” Aveline says. “But I saw the corpse. Kelder was stabbed several times at the _least_.”

Hawke huffs. “Luta was scared! She reacted violently because her life was in danger and she knew it —”

“She didn’t appear that scared to me,” Aveline says. “In fact, you seemed far more terrified than her.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! Luta almost never shows her emotions.”

“Of course it means something! A man stabbed her in the leg and she _pulled the knife out to kill him with it!_ And she didn’t cry once! You saw that Lia girl. She was crying when we found her, and she’s at least a few years older than Luta. _That_ is the way a child should react to pain and danger!”

“But Luta is nothing like Lia!” Hawke throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “How could you expect her to be!? Luta’s not just a child — she’s a runaway slave. Of course she’s used to violence! How many men do you think Fenris has had to kill in front of her!?”

“That’s no excuse!”

“No, it’s a fucking _fact!_ Do you know why Fenris has Luta learning how to pick locks?”

“Because he’s a fool who thinks giving his daughter freedom means allowing her to follow in Isabela’s footsteps!”

Hawke groans, rubbing his temple. “No, Aveline. Think about it. Fenris has the lyrium. If slavers or that Danarius bastard catch up to him and Luta, Fenris can use his powers to escape any bindings.”

Aveline pales. She sees it now — the horrible truth that Hawke realized the second he heard Fenris mention lock picking lessons.

“Fenris can escape,” Aveline says hoarsely, “but Luta cannot.”

“Exactly. If they try to put her in chains, then picking the locks are her greatest chance to get away… Aveline, I think Fenris knows what he is doing.”

Aveline looks away from him. Her face is still pale and horrified.

Hawke pats her pauldron. “I know you want to protect her from everything in the world, the same way you want to protect everybody, but that’s not possible. Sometimes you have to make a choice: survival or peace. And Fenris will always choose survival.”

Aveline grunts and looks down at her boots. A light kick sends flakes of dried mud into the air. Hawke understands how kind Aveline can be — how she acts like the world is hers to protect. He pulls her in for a hug, ignoring the harsh edges of her armor. Aveline hugs him back.

“I know you care about Luta,” Hawke whispers in her ear, “but don’t you think your overprotective tendencies are acting up again?”

Aveline starts to pull away. “My _what?”_

“I’m saying this as your friend,” Hawke says in his most placating tone. He tugs Aveline back into the hug. She’s had a rough day. “Whenever you care about somebody, you want what’s best for them… and sometimes what you think is best is different from what they think is best. So you kind of strong-arm them into doing things your way.”

Aveline huffs in his ear.

“We know you do it out of love,” Hawke tries to soothe her.

Sighing and shaking her head, Aveline pulls out of the hug. Hawke lets her this time.

“Maybe you’re right,” Aveline admits. “Carver is always barking at me about that. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for keeping him out of the Guard.”

Hawke laughs. “We both know that Carver adores you. He just hides it underneath all his grumpiness.”

Smiling softly, Aveline says, “Thanks, Hawke. This chat helped a lot… Would you mind doing me one small favor?”

“I’m not stripping for your guards just to improve their morale.”

“Two favors, then. The first is spending less time with Isabela and Varric.”

 

—————

 

Hawke whistles to himself as he watches Luta carve something into the wall with a dull knife. He has seen the carvings before — during his many visits to Fenris — but until now, Luta’s artistic process has been a mystery. So at least this trip isn’t a complete waste of Hawke’s time.

The favor Aveline wanted was to accompany her to Fenris’ place and help smooth things over. It was a lot easier than Aveline probably expected. All Hawke had to do was tell Fenris that her overbearing attitude came hand-in-hand with her big heart, and Fenris forgave her.

But then Fenris wanted to speak to Aveline in private, so here Hawke is, alone with Luta. It’s not a problem — he has gotten to know her pretty well over the past month — except that she isn’t talking. Hawke has tried asking her about a bunch of things. Favorite colors, favorite soups, favorite season. No matter what he says, Luta just answers with a withering glance.

So Hawke has given up on that. Now he’s whistling an old tune — the one his father used to whistle while he farmed.

The sound seems to annoy Luta, as she has started to stab more viciously into the wall. Hawke scoots closer to see what she’s making.

It’s an image of a dog. Hawke stops whistling. He recognizes the shape of a spot carved into its back.

“Is that Marmalade?”

Luta nods.

“Damn. That’s a really good drawing, Luta. Whenever I try to draw a dog, it ends up looking like a badly drawn horse.”

Luta finally cracks a little smile. She looks up at Hawke — even with her kneeling and him sitting on his ass, Hawke towers over her.

“What happens when you draw a horse?” Luta asks.

“It looks like a messed up cow.”

“If you draw a cow?”

“It looks like an ugly nug.”

“And a nug —”

“— a blob, to be honest. And if I try to draw a blob, I get a perfect circle.”

Luta starts to giggle uncontrollably. Hawke’s glad somebody in Kirkwall still finds him funny. While Luta calms down, Hawke looks closer at her other drawings.

“See, your art is so much better.” Hawke points to an old carving of a cat. “I could tell that was a cat right away.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. And that one —“ Hawke taps another carving. “—is a dragon. Very impressive.”

“Thank you!” Luta beams at him. Apparently flattery goes a long way with her. “Varric showed me a book filled with drawings of dragons. So I wanted to draw one, too.”

Hawke snorts. “Believe me, you succeeded.”

For a few more minutes, Hawke continues to ask Luta about various carvings she made. She doesn’t grow bored of it, so Hawke makes a mental note to talk about art with her in the future.

There is one carving he purposely stays away from. There’s already a thick layer of dust settled over it, so Luta must have made it a while ago. It looks like a dead bearded man holding a staff, with ‘x’s for eyes and a lot of sticks — swords, Hawke thinks — stabbing him. Next to the dead man is a much smaller figure, smiling and triumphantly carrying their own sword. Hawke is pretty sure that’s supposed to be Luta.

The image unnerves Hawke. He finds himself stealing glances at it and stroking his own beard reassuringly.

Hawke’s favorite carving — and he makes sure to tell Luta this — is the one of Luta and Fenris. They’re holding hands and smiling, and the entire image is so cute that Hawke nearly squealed when he first saw it. The carving of Luta and Varric is a close second. Mostly because they’re the same height, but Varric is considerably wider around the middle. It makes Hawke cackle. Luta doesn’t seem to realize what’s so funny.

Their fun comes to an end when Fenris and Aveline return. Fenris looks tired but relieved. Aveline simply appears… off. Hawke can’t figure out the expression on her face, even though he’s known her for over a year.

Hawke ruffles Luta’s hair as he says goodbye. She scrunches her nose at him, which is cute. Fenris shakes Aveline and Hawke’s hands.

“Thank you,” Fenris tells them. Hawke isn’t sure what the thanks is for.

As Hawke and Aveline leave the room, Hawke glances back one last time. He sees Fenris on his knees next to Luta, gently weaving a hand through her hair — the lines of lyrium carved into his flesh becoming lost among the white strands.

 

—————

 

About a month after Fenris and Aveline patch things up, someone else manages to draw the elf’s ire.

That someone is Hawke.

“Who pissed in your breakfast?” Carver asks Fenris. Hawke feels the angry gaze on his back redirect to Carver.

“Why don’t you leave me alone and focus on rectifying that inferiority complex of yours?”

Carver huffs indignantly. “I do _not_ have a complex.”

“You do,” Fenris snaps.

Hawke sneaks a look at Fenris out of the corner of his eye. The elf has been in a bitter mood since he first met with Merrill and the Hawkes at Anders’ clinic. Normally Hawke would pin Fenris’ irritation on Merrill’s presence and Anders babysitting Luta, but within ten minutes it was clear that Hawke had somehow earned Fenris’ anger. That anger had not dwindled in the slightest over the next few hours. It is plain to see even now — except perhaps to Merrill and Carver, but both of them were… special cases.

Luta can certainly see it, at least. Her eyes keep flickering between Hawke and her father, he frown more confused than angry.

Hawke is also confused. He last saw Fenris the day before last, during a game of Wicked Grace. Varric has been teaching Luta how to play, and Hawke lost on purpose to give her an edge. Anders also lost miserably, but Hawke thinks that wasn’t intentional. It certainly didn’t hurt Fenris’ good mood that night.

Sometime between then and now, Hawke managed to anger Fenris. He has no idea how.

Carver and Merrill leave them as they pass the alienage, and normally Hawke would part now as well. Instead he turns away from his uncle’s neighborhood and follows Fenris to his manor.

Fenris doesn’t comment, not on the way there and not when they reach the doors. He does, however, leave the door open behind him. Hawke takes that as a silent invitation, one that he gladly accepts. By the time Hawke has locked the door again and unbuckled his sword belt, Fenris and Luta are nowhere in sight. But Hawke can hear murmuring from the second floor, and he follows the sound.

Fenris and Luta are in their usual room. The child has already buried herself in a pile of blankets, peeking out to prod at a strange cube on the floor. It looks dwarven.

“Varric gave it to her.”

Fenris stands rigidly by the fireplace. He nods at the item that Luta is playing with.

“He stopped by yesterday,” Fenris says. “Apparently, he found it among his belongings. It’s an old dwarven puzzle his parents gave him when he was a child.”

Luta slides a notch in the cube, and the whole thing twists, each side rotating and setting again with a click. Hawke can’t tell what the goal of the puzzle is. At least Luta seems entertained.

“That was nice of him.”

“It was,” Fenris agrees. Then, glaring at Hawke, he snaps, “He also told me about your adventure yesterday.”

“… Oh. The mages from Starkhaven.”

“I knew were soft on your fellow mages, but this?” Fenris swings an arm like he’s swatting at a fly. “This is a new level of foolish!”

His own temper rising, Hawke tries to keep his voice calm. “I won’t condemn anyone to the Circle, Fenris.”

“They were _blood mages!”_

The clicking sound of Luta’s toy stops, but Hawke doesn’t look over. His anger has finally reached the boiling point.

“The blood mages attacked us and we killed them!” His voice rises with every word. “The rest were innocent.”

Fenris laughs. It’s a mean sound. “Really!? I didn’t realize innocent people aspire to kill other innocents!”

… He’s talking about Ser Thrask. _Maker’s Breath, how detailed did Varric get!?_

But Hawke won’t back down. He is sick of this. “They were willing to do what was necessary for their freedom! People don’t have many options when they’re backed into a corner. You of all people should know that!”

He realizes that he has gone too far as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Hawke knows he is right, but he also knows how sensitive Fenris can be. How easily he feels betrayed.

“Get out,” Fenris hisses.

“I —”

“Get out!”

“Wait —”

_“Out!”_

_“Fine!”_ Hawke roars. He also feels hurt and betrayed; magic is a part of him. “I’ll leave! Anything to get away from _you!”_

He slams the door on the way out.

 

—————

 

Hawke doesn’t bother knocking before storming into Varric’s room at the Hanged Man.

“What in Andraste’s ass were you thinking!?”

Varric looks up from the parchment he was writing on.

“Hawke?”

“Yes, Hawke! Hawke who you can’t stop talking about, apparently!”

Varric blinks. “Is this about the rumor that you bribed your way into Kirkwall with a griffon egg?”

“What!? No!” Hawke slams his fist on Varric’s table. A bottle of ink nearly topples over. “This is about you blabbing everything I say and do to Fenris!”

Eyes widening in realization, Varric drops his quill and raises his hands in protest. “Hold on! That’s not —”

_“Save it.”_

Hawke storms out as quickly as he stormed in.

He doesn’t feel any better.

 

—————

 

“Leandra, your boy’s grouching is getting on my nerves,” Gamlen greets his sister as soon as she walks in the door.

Leandra puts down the basket full of bread she was carrying and says, “Please leave Carver be. He’s having a rough time, that’s all.”

“I wasn’t talking about Carver.”

Hawke turns his gaze away before his mother can see his face. He doesn’t want her to fret over him.

A hand falls on his shoulder.

“Garrett? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he grunts. Gamlen snorts.

“... Gamlen, can you give us some privacy?”

“This is _my_ house, you know,” Gamlen gripes, but Hawke hears him stand anyway.

Hawke mumbles, “Not exactly a house.”

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘Have fun at The Blooming Rose.’ “

“Keep it up, boy, and I’ll throw you out on the streets!”

Hawke starts to retort, but a squeeze of his mother’s hand stops him. Gamlen slams the door on the way out.

“Now,” Leandra says, moving to sit in the chair opposite her son, “do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Not particularly.”

“Alright. I’ll try guessing then.”

Hawke sighs, glaring down at the table. He remembers sitting here with Luta over a month ago.

“Is Carver picking fights with you again?”

“He never stopped in the first place, Mother.”

“Thought so. That boy... And it’s not Gamlen bothering you. You would have been much ruder otherwise…”

He lets his mother ponder in peace. It’s too tiring to stop her, too tiring to soothe her worries. Too tiring to do anything.

“Templars didn’t find those friends of yours, or you’d be forcing your way into the Gallows by now. And Aveline would have followed you here if she had to do with it. Hmm… Did you lose the coin you were saving for the expedition?”

Hawke doesn’t answer.

Leandra sighs and says, “Your father did this, too, when he was upset. He tried to be so charming all the time that the moment something truly bothered him, he’d push everyone away in order to hide it. But that tactic never worked on me. It still doesn’t.”

Hawke looks up at her, glare already fading. Leandra smiles softly at him.

“Malcolm and I always had our differences and our grievances,” she continues. “But we overcame all of it together… Please, Garrett. Don’t try to handle your troubles on your own. That only hurts the people who care about you.”

Snorting, Hawke shakes his head. “What people? Every day I see more and more proof of how alone I —”

His mother slaps him upside the head.

“Ow!”

“Garrett Malcolm Hawke, don’t you say that to me! There are _many_ people who care about you. And you know what?”

“What?” Hawke grumbles, still rubbing his head.

“I’m at the top of the list.”

Damn. His mother always was good at using her love like a weapon. And Hawke knows that what he said was uncharitable at best. His friends have always been at his side, even in times of trouble.

A week ago, Fenris even used his knowledge of Qunlat to help Hawke with the Arishok — and the Arishok was _not_ an easy man to face. Hawke isn’t used to people being bigger than him. He took one look at the Qunari leader and felt like an ant before a giant. It was very intimidating. He still gets goosebumps every time he passes the damn Compound.

Breaking off his trail of thoughts, Hawke chuckles and leans back in his chair. He appraises his mother with a critical eye. She can be a tricky bastard, when she wants to be.

“Fine. I’ll talk.”

“Perfect.” Leandra stands up. “I’ll get some tea ready.”

 

—————

 

“Oh, Garrett.”

“He started it!” Hawke thinks that is a significant detail.

His mother pats his hand. “I know, darling. But two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Hawke glares at her, and she chortles.

“But in all seriousness,” Leandra says, setting her teacup down, “I think what you need here is some outside perspective.”

Hawke groans. This is a repeat of the conversation he had with Aveline, only now _he’s_ supposedly the one being a nearsighted ass.

Leandra smiles, and turns her gaze into the nearby fire. “I’ve told you many times about how your father and I met.”

“And how you eloped and ran off to Fereldan, yes.”

“Well, I don’t think I ever mentioned how hard it was. Sacrifices were made in order for us to be together. I left behind a life of luxury for a life where we struggled just to find enough food, and your father…”

Leandra shudders.

“You know that the fates of apostates are decided by the Templars who find them. Your father was already in the Circle, and had charmed his way into most of the Templars’ graces. He could have stayed there — possibly without ever facing danger. But he risked his life instead.”

She looks down at her hands, at the rings she still wears — simple steel, the only thing they could afford — and says softly, “He risked it for me.”

It’s a lot more than Leandra has ever said before. Hawke realizes he is holding his breath, and releases it.

“It wasn’t something that I understood, at first. I’m sure you heard us arguing about it.” More times than Hawke can count. “And Malcolm didn’t understand why I didn’t understand! It was a mess. But we talked, and listened to each other, and with time we learned.”

Leandra takes both of Hawke’s hands in hers. They’re small compared to his, but the warmth they bring goes beyond measure.

“Look at me, darling,” Leandra says, and Hawke does. “Just like I didn’t understand the dangers your father faced or the fear he constantly suffered from, _you_ do not understand what troubles Fenris.”

That surprises Hawke. “Wait, hang on! I thought you were going in the opposite direction with that.”

Leandra huffs out a little laugh. “No. You told me Fenris is a runaway slave, right? And his little girl?”

Hawke nods.

“Then they know the fear of being found better than you do. So does that mage Anders. They have all been locked away, whether it is in chains or in the Circle.  _Your_ fear comes from secondhand experience. Garrett, you have always been free. You cannot understand what you have not seen and what you have not endured.”

“Then how am I supposed to —”

“Unless!” His mother cuts Hawke off. “Unless you are willing to listen. I know Fenris is stubborn, and he may refuse to listen to you, but give him a chance. You’ll regret it if you don’t. I would have.”

Hawke stares at the wrinkles on Leandra’s hands as he thinks.

“Alright. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It would be terrible if I never got to see that adorable little girl again.”

Laughing, Hawke nods and says, “Yes. Yes, it would be.”

 

—————

 

Hawke leaves Gamlen’s shack before nightfall, but not to see Fenris. There is another nearby who deserves an apology.

Varric looks up from his mug when Hawke knocks gently on his door frame.

“You know, you should close your door once in a while. Maybe even lock it,” Hawke suggests. “I feel like you’re just making things easier for the many people who want you dead.”

Varric eyes him wearily. “Are you one of those people?”

Hawke sighs and walks in, taking a seat next to Varric.

“No,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

Varric snorts. “Good. Because I thought I was doing you a favor — figured the elf would find you more heroic after killing that asshole blood mage.”

“Varric.”

“Yeah, Hawke?”

“I love you.”

“Thanks, big guy, but you’re not my type. Come talk to me if you ever shave that beard, though.”

 

—————

 

The next day, Hawke knocks on Fenris’ door. He hears no footsteps, so it startles him when the door suddenly opens a crack.

One green eye peeks out, about level with Hawke’s hips.

Luta.

“Pati doesn’t want to see you,” she says. The door is still nearly shut and muffles her words.

“What —” Hawke tries to peer into the mansion. “Did you just open the door by yourself?”

“Go away, hairy man.”

_Hairy man!?_

Just a month ago Luta was giggling at his jokes, and now she calls him ‘hairy man’!? How could she swing back to hating Hawke so quickly?

 _Because her mood is synced to her father’s_ , Hawke realizes. The thought is depressing.

Whatever. Hawke is an adult. He can handle this.

“I really don’t think you should be answering the door alone. That’s dangerous.”

“It’s none of your business!” Luta snaps. “Now scram, sweet cheeks.”

_Sweet cheeks!!!?_

“Luta? Who are you talking to?”

That voice is familiar, but it’s not Fenris’.

The door swings wide open to reveal Isabela, sweaty and with her hair tied back messily. Hawke swears on the Maker that he can actually feel something die inside his heart.

“Oh, Hawke!” Isabela looks happy to see him. “Fantastic! Fenris is in a terrible mood, so go cheer him up.”

“Why are you here!? Are you teaching Luta your catchphrases, too!?”

“I don’t know what that even means.”

“She literally just told me to scram and called me ‘sweet cheeks.’ “

Isabela guffaws. “Okay, the ‘sweet cheeks’ bit might be my fault, but I think you can blame Varric for the rest.”

“Great,” Hawke says. He doesn’t let up on his glare. “Why are you here?”

“I’m teaching Luta how to fight with knives.”

“... Are you serious?”

“Absolutely!” Isabela winks and gives him a dramatic thumbs up. “Fenris has made me Luta’s number one tutor in all of life’s great skill sets.”

“Like lock picking?” Hawke drawls. 

He knows why Fenris wants Luta to learn all this, but why from Isabela!? Varric is just as capable, and he’s always at eye-level with Luta — and he doesn’t hit on Fenris every other minute! It’s a win-win.

“Lock picking is the most important skill of all,” Isabela asserts.

Hawke rolls his eyes.

“If you knew how to pick a lock, you wouldn’t need to drag me and Varric everywhere you go,” Isabela says.

“Yeah, well, if you knew how to keep your panties on — wait, where’d Luta go?”

The girl has vanished from Isabela’s side.

“Eh.” Isabela shrugs. “Probably to tell Fenris you’ve arrived to beg for forgiveness.”

“Oh… Wait. Fenris told you?”

Isabela snorts. “About your little spat? He wouldn’t shut up about it for two hours. For the record, I like him better when he keeps that angst bottled up. The inner turmoil adds to his dark, sexy aura.”

“Maker’s balls, Isabela! Just let me in.”

“Alright! No need to get cross.”

Isabela shuts and locks the door behind him, then trots up the stairs. Hawke follows. His nerves are on edge, like he’s carrying lightning with him.

“Fenris! Look who’s here!”

Hawke enters the master bedroom to find Fenris sprawled next to the fireplace, a half-empty bottle of wine in hand. Luta kneels beside him. She’s doing something with his hair.

Fenris tilts his head back to glower upside down at Hawke. “I know. Luta informed me.”

Hawke clears his throat and says, “I came to talk, if you’re willing.”

“... Fine.”

Hawke tries to hide his relief. Isabela’s laugh tells him he failed.

“Let’s get back to practice, Luta,” Isabela says. “Fifteen more minutes and then we’re done for the day.”

Letting go of her father’s hair, Luta twists around to glare at Hawke. It takes several ominous seconds for her to mumble an agreement and follow Isabela.

Hawke waits until the door is shut to speak.

“I wanted to apologize.”

Fenris blinks at him, then finally gets up. He gestures to the nearby table.

“Have a seat, Hawke.”

Thrown off by Fenris’ suddenly polite demeanor, Hawke hesitates, but gives in when Fenris sits down without delay.

“Would you like some wine?” Fenris lifts his wine bottle and shakes it slightly.

“Uh. Thank you, but no.”

Fenris shrugs and takes a swig for himself. Straight out of the bottle. Hawke realizes that Fenris expected him to drink that way, too.

He fails to hold in a laugh. Fenris raises an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry, it’s just that most people offer their guests a glass, not the whole bottle.”

“I wasn’t offering the whole bottle, just a few sips. The rest was always going to be mine. If you want your own, the wine cellar remains miraculously full. Help yourself.”

Hawke laughs again. “Such stellar hospitality.”

Fenris smirks, but only for a second. Hawke remembers why he came here.

He clears his throat again and speaks. “Fenris, I want you to know that I still stand by what I’ve done to keep mages from the Circle. But I regret my behavior towards you. I forgot that your reasons for hating mages are greater than simple prejudice, and I… I became angry.”

Frowning, Fenris flexes his hand around the wine bottle. Hawke pauses, but when Fenris says nothing, he takes it as a cue to continue.

“I realize that was stupid of me. I tossed aside your past experience with mages like it didn’t matter. But it does. So, if you want to tell me now, I’m willing to hear why you think I should have handed those mages to the Templars.”

Fenris stares at him for a moment. When he starts to chug the rest of the wine, Hawke tries to seem calm and collected.

Finishing the bottle with a flourish, Fenris suddenly scowls and chucks it at the wall. It smashes, glass splintering across the floor. Hawke flinches and glances nervously at the door.

“It’s fine,” Fenris says, waving a hand dismissively. “They cannot hear us over Isabela’s training regime. She is very loud.”

Hawke smiles shakily. His unease is steadily growing, and Fenris smashing that bottle didn’t help.

“To be honest, I never expected you to apologize,” Fenris admits. The scowl vanishes from his face, leaving only sorrow. “Perhaps I’m simply not used to it yet. So thank you. For saying all of that… It means more than you might think.”

Fenris clears his throat and continues, “And I owe you an apology as well. But first, there is something far more important to discuss… Hawke, you are too naive.”

“... I am?”

“Yes,” Fenris says, his lips twitching a little. “You tend to see the good in people, even when it is not there. And you ignore the danger, even when it stares you in the face.”

Hawke scratches his beard. “I’m not sure that’s completely accurate.”

“You are friends with an abomination, a blood mage whose own clan fears her, a pirate who constantly lies and cheats, and a runaway slave who could lure magisters and slavers to your doorstep at any moment. So yes, Hawke, it is completely accurate.”

Hawke laughs.

Fenris lies one hand flat on the table. Without his gauntlets on, Hawke can clearly see the lines of lyrium trailing down to his fingertips.

“Hawke, I’m going to tell you what I told Aveline a month ago. I...” Fenris starts, then hesitates. He takes a deep breath. “The first memory I have is the pain of the lyrium carving into my flesh.”

Hawke blinks. The feeling of dread that always seems to plague him lately suddenly skyrockets.

“Are you… Are you saying you received them when you were just a baby? They did that to a _baby?”_

Fenris sighs. “Of course not. A baby would never survive such a ritual. No, I was twelve when I received the markings. I’m saying that the pain of the ritual wiped away all memories that came before it.”

Hawke gapes at him. Fenris looks away, staring into the unlit fireplace.

He says, “I did not remember anything. The warmth of the sun surprised me when I first stepped outside. I forgot that fire burns and blades cut. The first meal I received, I nearly choked on. Like a newborn child. It took me a full year to become comfortable with even the simplest of life’s necessities.”

Snapping his jaw shut, Hawke leans forward. He doesn’t have the nerve to reach for Fenris’ hand.

“Most importantly, I did not remember my family. I still do not know if I ever had parents. Still, simple logic dictates that I must have seen parental behavior at some point in my childhood. But with such memories lost…”

Fenris pauses, takes another deep breath, and looks Hawke in the eye again.

“When Luta was born, I knew nothing of being a parent. And neither Danarius nor anybody else in his household felt it necessary to teach me. Luta spent the first six years of her life alone and neglected, because a mage carved lyrium into my flesh and stripped me of my knowledge of the world. When I say that mages seek power at any cost, I meant it.”

Fenris leans back, waving his hand through the air. “What is one person compared to the power mages covet? I have seen the answer, Hawke. We are nothing.”

 

—————

 

Fenris and Hawke agree to disagree.

As the son of Malcolm Hawke and an apostate himself, Hawke does not see the Circle as a solution to anything. Just a prison. Fenris gives up on changing Hawke’s mind — for now, at least — after hearing Hawke’s perspective. Meanwhile, Fenris still sees the Circle as a necessity. That doesn’t rankle Hawke as much as it did before. Every time Fenris makes a derisive comment about mages, Hawke remembers the look on his face when he spoke of Luta’s earliest years.

But the discussion they had that day did change _something_ , although Hawke finds it impossible to define what. All he knows is that Fenris is kinder to Hawke. His rants against magic are sparser in Hawke’s presence. Also, Fenris doesn’t say anything when Hawke mentions magical theory, or practicing magic, or his new exploration of the healing arts. It’s as if Fenris thinks Hawke could be the first morally decent mage to ever exist.

That’s probably wishful thinking, though.

Luta’s attitude, as usual, follows her father’s. Since Fenris is being nice again, she decides that it’s okay to be nice, too.

 

—————

 

“This is for good luck.”

Hawke looks down to see Luta holding up something small and shiny on a chain. He gently takes it from her.

“What is it?” Hawke asks.

Isabela suddenly drapes herself over his shoulders, peeking at what Luta gave him. “It looks like garbage.”

“It’s not garbage!” Luta protests. _“You’re_ garbage!”

Isabela laughs, delighted, and let’s go of Hawke in order to tweak Luta’s nose.

“Ugh!” Luta slaps Isabela’s hand away and glares at her.

“What are you doing?”

Hawke turns to see Carver scowling at them. He’s carrying a bag full of supplies for their expedition. It’s one of many, all littered around the Hightown plaza as Bartrand’s men pack up them into carriages. Once everything is ready, the expedition party will set off for the entrance to the Deep Roads, which Hawke expects to be as dreary and depressing as it sounds.

“We’re supposed to be preparing for the expedition. Stop goofing off,” Carver snaps.

“I’m talking to Luta.”

Carver rolls his eyes. “Is it important?”

“Yes, actually,” Hawke says. “Talking to Luta is always important.”

Isabela tries to cover up her snicker with a cough. It doesn’t work.

“Don’t get your delicates in a twist, Junior,” Varric says loftily as he joins them, Anders at his heels. Beyond them, Hawke can see Merrill talking excitedly to his mother, Aveline, and Fenris. Leandra is smiling softly, while Fenris has a disinterested look on his face and is clearly ignoring the other elf. Aveline looks a little dazed.

Hawke feels a rush of warmth in his chest when he realizes that so many people came to say goodbye and wish them well.

Varric slaps Carver on the back. Carver scowls even more ferociously.

“We’re making good time. Don’t listen to Bartrand. He’s just telling everyone to hurry so he has a reason to boss everyone around.”

“Charming,” Isabela says. Varric laughs and starts to chat with her and Anders.

Hawke turns back to Luta. She’s staring at Bartrand’s men with narrowed eyes, so he takes this chance to look at her gift.

It’s a small, metal pendant shaped like a wolf. Hawke sees little rust specks dotting the whole thing, but the rest is shiny — like someone tried to polish it.

“I found it in the alienage.”

Hawke looks at Luta. She shuffles her feet and her face flushes slightly red.

“More specifically, I, uh… found it in the trash,” Luta admits, blushing harder. “Please do not tell Isabela.”

Hawke laughs. “I won’t. Why are you giving it to me?”

“It looked like something that deserved better.”

That seems cryptic, but Hawke doesn’t question her further.

“I was going to keep it,” Luta says, “but Pati says you are going into the Deep Roads?”

“That’s right.”

“Those are the tunnels overrun by darkspawn, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Then I give the pendant to you,” Luta says firmly. “May it bring you good luck on your journey.”

“... Thank you,” Hawke croaks. He’s starting to tear up a little. “That means a lot to me, Luta.”

Luta shakes her head. “I am mostly doing it for my father. You are his ally, and you are taking most of his other allies with you. Pati will need you to come back if we want to remain in Kirkwall. Also, Carver is nice, so I thought some of this luck could go to him.”

For some strange reason, Hawke doesn’t feel hurt by that — not even the bizarre notion of Carver being nicer than him. He even feels a little proud.

“We’ll come back. I promise.”

“I will hold you to that.”

Hawke beams at Luta and can’t help but ask, “Can I give you a hug?”

Luta scowls, but nods.

Hawke swoops down to tug her into his arms. He’s an expert at hugs, so he’s not surprised to feel her hug him back after some hesitation.

“No fair! I want to hug Luta!”

Somebody kicks Hawke in the knee, and he yelps and releases Luta, landing ass-first on the pavement. Isabela takes his place, clutching Luta to her like an octopus reeling in its prey. Luta hugs her back much faster than she hugged back Hawke.

“Are you alright, Hawke?” He looks up to see Fenris offering him a hand. Hawke accepts, and Fenris pulls him to his feet with unexpected strength.

“Thanks,” Hawke says, sheepish.

“You are most welcome.” Fenris looks at the chain in Hawke’s hand. “Luta gave it to you then?”

Hawke can’t stop grinning. “I’m wearing it and never taking it off.”

“... I’m not sure if that’s necessary, but I’m glad you appreciate it. She ended up opening a bottle of wine to try to clean some of the rust off.” Fenris glances fondly at Luta. “I tried to explain that it wasn’t the right type of alcohol, but she was determined.”

“Well, I’m sorry for wasting your wine.”

Fenris laughs.

“I really do appreciate it, though. Maker knows the Deep Roads are dangerous. I think a little luck can’t hurt,” Hawke says.

He pulls the pendant’s chain around his neck. It’s long enough not to choke him, but too short for him to see the clasp under his chin. Hawke tries to close it blindly. It doesn’t work.

Fenris rolls his eyes and swats at Hawke’s hands. “Here. Let me help.”

“Th-thanks,” Hawke stutters. Fenris gestures for him to lift his chin, and he does, thanking the Maker that he took the time this morning to trim and neaten up his beard.

Already without his gauntlets, Fenris is able to quickly and efficiently close the clasp. His hands only graze against the bare skin below Hawke’s clavicle for a couple of seconds. It’s enough time to send sparks along Hawke’s nerves.

“There.” Fenris steps away, leaving Hawke a little colder. “Now when there is trouble, you have the well-wishes of a nine-year-old to defend you.”

“Hey, now! That’s a little unfair. I bet this charm could fend off a full-grown dragon.”

Fenris laughs and says, “I was teasing, but since you said that, I implore you not to rely too much on a good luck charm.”

“Listen, I know what I’m talking about. The amulet I brought from Fereldan —”

“— had a witch in it,” Fenris drawls.

“Exactly! Necklaces can be powerful.”

“I doubt that the charm my daughter found while rummaging through garbage will end up containing an immortal legend.”

“Well, I think you just jinxed it,” Hawke says. “Now it definitely will.”

Fenris laughs again, shaking his head. Hawke decides that Fenris’ laugh is one of his top five favorite things.

The urge to ask Fenris for a hug is overwhelming, but Hawke still has to work up the nerve for it. Before he can manage to, Aveline comes over, giving Hawke’s new accessory the stink eye.

“I don’t think scavenging trash is a safe pastime for Luta,” she says.

Fenris rolls his eyes. “I’m aware. I spoke to her about it, and she promises not to do it again.”

“And you believe her?”

“She hasn’t lied to me before.”

“Alright.” Aveline tips her head in a tiny little nod. “I trust your judgment, Fenris. In this, at least.”

“Thanks,” Fenris says very sarcastically. Aveline chuckles at him.

“I’m going to miss you two.” Hawke sniffles dramatically, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “And Merrill. Try to keep her company while I’m away?”

Fenris glares at him, and Aveline shifts her gaze away.

Hawke huffs. “I’m not asking you to give her a damn kidney. Just don’t leave her all by herself. Everyone she hangs out with is going with us.”

“Why isn’t she going?” Aveline asks. “I’ll keep her company, but I’m sure she would rather join your trip.”

Hawke thinks of the time Merrill got lost in Hightown and asked a bloody Templar for directions. Anders’ map of the Deep Roads show that they are infinitely more complex than any of Kirkwall’s districts.

“That’s definitely not a good idea,” Hawke says.

“Hawke!”

Speak of the devil. Something barrels into him, too small to make him shift more than inch.

Hawke laughs. “Hi, Merrill.”

Merrill squeezes her arms around him, squishing her face into his side. “You’re wrong! It’s ‘Bye, Merrill!’ Because you’re leaving!”

Rubbing her back, Hawke tries to comfort her. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Promise?” Merrill lifts her head, revealing that she was crying for real.

Hawke feels a wave of affection for her, and gives her a tight hug. “Of course I promise.”

“That’s enough of that,” Aveline says sharply. “I’ve known him the longest, I ought to be the one getting that promise.”

Hawke laughs and lets go of Merrill, spreading his arms wide. Aveline accepts the silent offer, hugging him tight enough to nearly crack his ribs.

Isabela tries to ruin their moment. “Damn, big girl. Has anyone ever taught you how to control those giant arms of yours?”

Aveline growls, releasing Hawke to turn to Isabela instead. “That’s it, whore.”

Rushing forward, Aveline tries to wrap her arms around Isabela, who darts away with a laugh. Pretty soon everybody is caught up in saying their goodbyes. Luta is hugging Varric goodbye, which is actually a little funny because Varric is the only one her height. Hawke is lucky enough to witness Carver turning red as he hugs Merrill, and Hawke makes a mental note to tease him for it later. Leandra refuses to let go of her sons for five minutes each.

Hawke feels bad about leaving her alone with only Gamlen, but his friends promise to visit her whenever they can. Besides, he needs Carver for the expedition. He’s the only available swordsman, since Aveline can’t take enough time so soon after her promotion, and Fenris has his own daughter to look after.

Hawke waits until Bartrand is distracted before clinging to his mother in another hug. This one lasts a long time, too.

He never gets a chance to hug Fenris, but nobody else does either, so Hawke doesn’t feel too bad about it. Fenris has always kept himself distant, after all.

Soon, everything is ready. Hawke hops in one of the carriages — seated between Varric and Anders — and waves goodbye to his mother and his friends until they are out of sight.

He fully intends to keep every promise he made.

 

—————

 

When Carver collapses, and Hawke sees the black spreading through his brother’s veins, he feels the world crack open again. Everything starts to fall in. Hawke can barely hear what Anders is saying over the sound of the rapture.

Hawke feels a weight against his sternum. He fumbles for it, finds the old metal wolf that Luta gave him, the chain that Fenris clasped around his neck. Takes a deep breath.

“Anders —”

And prays.

“— lead us to the Wardens.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter specifically: mentions of past child neglect, talk of slavery, and hinted ptsd
> 
> fyi: I made some edits to the first chapter -- mostly format changes and typos, but I did delete an unnecessary scene (the one before Fenris first appears) and added a sentence somewhere about Luta's face. I originally forgot to mention that her eyebrows and eyelashes are white, which is the biggest difference between her and Fenris other than age and gender. The point is, it doesn't affect this chapter so you don't have to read it unless you want to.
> 
> my dragon age tumblr is swoopingisbad, if you want to follow or ask questions.


	3. Your Light Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after arriving in Kirkwall, Luta screws up. Not as badly as Fenris, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some reminders: 
> 
> Hawke and most of the Kirkwall crew are unaware that Fenris is transgender. Hawke is ignorant in this, though not intentionally. Luta doesn't correct him out of respect for her father's privacy.
> 
> If anybody is confused about what Fenris has told Hawke, the answer is nothing. He's a lot more private about everything, including the Fog Warriors, because he thinks staying secretive will help protect Luta. That's why he kept his lack of memories secret for months.
> 
> Fenris is not out of character. Because of Luta, he is a little softer towards children and a lot more private. He's still lovely, bitter Fenris.

 

 

_In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

_I will see the stars and know_

_Your Light remains._

Canticle of Trials 1:2

 

—————

 

“Serah Hawke!”

Hawke turns to find Saemus leaning casually against the wall, a couple of feet away from the guard barracks.

“Serah Saemus,” Hawke teases. “It’s been a while. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing well, serah. You?”

“I am absolutely fantastic.”

This is sort of true. Hawke is ecstatic that after two and a half years of waiting, the Amell Estate now belongs to his mother. However, he could do without a personal summons from the Arishok himself. He still remembers how off-putting their first meeting was.

“I wanted to thank you,” Saemus says, “for defending my interest in the Qun. Simply knowing that —”

The doors to the barracks swing open, and Luta bursts through with a bag in hand.

“I’m here! Sorry, Saemus, I — Oh! Hawke. Hello.” Luta quickly hides the bag behind her back, but it’s too late.

“What’s in there?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh. Isabela’s still teaching you stuff, right?”

“… Yes.”

“Tell her to add lying to the lessons list. Or better yet, ask Varric.”

Luta glares at him defiantly, but a moment later, her shoulders sag in defeat. She reluctantly hands the bag over to Hawke, who ruffles her hair as soon as she’s close enough.

“Stop that!” Luta darts out of his reach. She’s a lot more outspoken than she was three years ago. “Leandra just cut my hair yesterday, and you already messed it up!”

Hawke laughs. “Believe me, it was already a mess.”

“Was not!”

“It was,” Saemus says, then snaps his jaw shut when Luta glares at him.

“Told you.”

“Well, maybe my hair would be neater if you people would stop ruining it!”

By ‘you people,’ she means Hawke and his friends. The only one who doesn’t ruffle her hair is Varric, and not by choice; it’s a little too awkward for him after Luta’s growth spurt.

Of course, Fenris is the only one who can do it without Luta trying to bite his hand off.

(And Hawke — he can’t help himself. Ruffling the child’s hair reminds him of Bethany and Carver, of chasing and teasing and loving them.)

“Sorry, Luta.” Hawke pointedly looks down at her. “Maybe if you were taller, we wouldn’t be tempted all the time.”

“Maybe _you_ should learn some self-restraint, asshole.”

Some nearby nobles gasp, offended by Luta’s language. They hurry away from the vicinity, but not before sending her looks of utmost disgust, which have the opposite of their intended effect — Luta’s glare turns into a smug smirk.

Three years ago, her oversized, patchwork clothing alone would have offended those nobles. Now, however, her tunic and breeches are both decent and fitting. Thanks to prolonged interference by Hawke’s mother and Varric, Fenris spent a decent amount of coin on clothing — some for Luta, and some for his own casual wear.

Watching the nobles scurry down the hall, Saemus chuckles. “You are always such a delight, Luta.”

“I know.”

Hawke shakes his head at her antics. He turns his attention to the bag, and slowly opens the flap, expecting something dangerous or at least illegal.

Instead, he finds a bunch of chalk.

“Are you kidding me?” Hawke ignores the puffs of chalk dust that spill into the air as he jostles the bag, hoping to find something hidden at the bottom. There’s nothing, though.

Saemus frowns. “What is it, serah?”

“It’s just chalk. Luta, why were you acting so weird?” Hawke tosses the bag back to her. She barely catches it. “Aveline probably doesn’t care if you take chalk from the guards. _I_ certainly don’t.”

It’s not like the guards actually bothered to trace the outline of every damn corpse in Kirkwall. There were simply too many.

“I just… wanted to mess with you.” Luta, once again, fails to tell a convincing lie.

Hawke decides he doesn’t care. How much damage could a teenager and a preteen do with a bunch of chalk?

 

—————

 

A lot of damage, it turns out. Watching over Luta doesn’t require the same careful eye as it did three years ago, and all of her ‘sitters’ are busy these days, so she can easily slip away without notice. Which she does. A lot.

This time, Luta and Saemus snuck out of the Keep together to wreak havoc. They became pretty close over the years, as well as their friend Lia. But Lia wants to be a guard in the future, so Hawke doubts she was involved in the mess all over Hightown.

Hawke was unaware of said mess until he left his new home after inspecting it. Upon stepping out the door, Hawke noticed a horde of nobles — all with scandalized expressions — gathered around a pillar. There were a couple of guards there, too, scrubbing at the stone. Hawke had to step closer to see what they were trying to get off: several rude phrases about Kirkwall’s nobility and the Chantry, accompanied by very nice, yet very unflattering drawings.

All of it was done in white chalk.

Hawke immediately headed to the Keep, and as expected, found a red-faced Aveline yelling at Luta and Saemus. Usually Aveline lets Hawke have a little input when it comes to scolding Luta, but this time she has steadfastly ignored him since he shimmied into her office ten minutes ago.

Theoretically, Hawke can speak up and calm Aveline down. But the risk of drawing her ire is too large, so Hawke stays silent and just watches.

“Unbelievable!” Aveline spits out for the umpteenth time. “I trust you to hang around the barracks while Fenris hunts down some blood mages and you — you —”

Luta says nothing, and her blank face gives no hints to what she’s thinking. To make things more difficult for Aveline, Saemus won’t budge from Luta’s side, so a guard had to be sent to fetch the viscount.

“I am sorry, Guard Captain,” Saemus says, lifting his chin defiantly, “but only for the trouble we have caused you. I feel no regret for our actions themselves.”

“No regret —” Aveline closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “You wrote insults about Kirkwall’s nobility all over Hightown! You wrote, and I quote, ‘Lady Friecombe hates her children almost as much as she hates her own nose!’ And ‘Ser Pinbroke eats his dog’s fleas for breakfast!’”

Saemus manages to hide his grin before Aveline can see it.

“And you, Luta — you drew nobles and Chantry Sisters with fangs! And rat tails!”

Hawke manages to disguise his snort as a sneeze.

“I thought it was an accurate depiction,” Luta says.

 _“You_ —”

Aveline is interrupted by Fenris’ arrival. He walks into her office with dried blood on his gauntlets, looking perfectly calm.

“I’m assuming you need to speak to me,” Fenris says.

Aveline blinks at him. “Well, yes. But how did you know —”

“I saw the drawings in the marketplace on my way back. I know my daughter’s handiwork like I know my own toes.”

“… I think you mean ‘like you know the back of your hands.’” Hawke finally speaks.

“I certainly do not. My gauntlets usually cover my hands, but I can always see my toes.”

Hawke’s laugh dies off when he notices Aveline direct her glare at him.

“If you saw what she did,” Aveline says to Fenris, “then you know why she’s in trouble. I can’t arrest her if she’s a minor, but if she doesn’t receive some sort of punishment, then the nobles will have my head — and both of yours.”

Fenris shrugs. “Then lie about it. Tell them I grounded her or something.”

“What do you mean, ‘lie?’ You’re not going to punish her for this?”

“No.”

Luta perks up and smirks at her father, while Aveline and Saemus’ jaws both drop.

“I like the drawings,” Fenris admits. “I find that they vastly improve Hightown’s architecture.”

Hawke bursts out laughing at the look on Aveline’s face. And when Viscount Dumar arrives and discovers not only what his son has done, but that Fenris endorses it, Hawke laughs so hard that he starts to cry.

Aveline refuses to speak to any of them for a full week.

 

—————

 

“I told you!”

Hawke and Fenris look up from their drinks to find Aveline glowering over their table at the Hanged Man.

“Oh, are you speaking to us again?” Fenris drawls.

“I am _not_ in the mood, Fenris. I told you that if Luta went unpunished, the nobles would be after you.”

Hawke frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Aveline slams a stack of parchment onto their table. “This is an official order for the guards to remove you from your mansion, Fenris.”

 _“Shit,”_ Hawke hisses.

“I tried to put a stop to it, but it’s been approved by too many Kirkwall officials. They’ve taken the matter out of my hands.” Aveline pauses and takes a deep breath. The anger on her face melts away, leaving only exhaustion and sorrow. “You need to take Luta and get out of there before I arrive with my guards. Before sunset.”

Fenris doesn’t speak. He also looks very tired.

“If they can manage it, the nobles will want you arrested for property theft, tax evasion — anything they can think of, really. I think I can prevent that, though,” Aveline assures Fenris. “I’ll just misname certain people on some documents, tragically lose any evidence of you living there in the first place — the usual, basically.”

“Fantastic. Seems like you have everything covered.” Fenris chugs down the rest of his ale.

“This is still _bad,_ Fenris!” Aveline snaps. “You just lost your home! Where are you going to go — the Alienage? The Hanged Man!? Both are a lot more vulnerable than the mansions in Hightown. Slavers and bounty hunters can break in —”

“I’m aware!” Fenris slams his fist on the table.

Aveline sighs, rubbing her temple. “I am sorry… You don’t deserve this.”

“It is hardly your fault, Aveline. In fact, you have my thanks for both the warning and for your help… Excuse me. I’m going to find Luta and head back.”

Fenris leaves for Varric’s room in a hurry; Luta usually hangs out there when they go to the Hanged Man.

“Maker,” Aveline groans. “I don’t what to do. I’m not sure I can add enough patrols to keep them safe in Lowtown. And if they have to move to Darktown, they’re doomed!”

Hawke grunts, deep in thought.

“Hawke?”

He abruptly stands and pats Aveline on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I think I have a solution.”

 

—————

 

“We have a lot of rooms,” Hawke says. “But Mother wants to keep a guest room, and with Bodahn and Sandal here, that leaves only one for you two to share.”

Fenris seems relieved by this, while Luta looks indifferent.

Hawke points to a door to the left. “That’s Mother’s room. She’s an old woman and goes to bed a little early —”

“I heard that, Garrett!”

“— so try to keep quiet once the sun fully sets.”

In the main hall, Leandra sighs so loudly Hawke can hear her from upstairs.

“I can be quiet,” Luta claims.

“Uh-huh. We’ll see.”

Luta tries to kick Hawke in the shin, but Fenris holds her back.

“Are you sure about this, Hawke?” Fenris says. Again. “Other nobles won’t like this —”

Hawke snorts. “So? They won’t like it when I get a pet dragon either. Won’t stop me then, won’t stop me now.”

“… Please do not attempt to adopt a dragon.”

“I won’t _attempt,_ Fenris, I will _succeed._ ” Hawke gestures to the right. “My room’s over here. Feel free to bother me at any time, for any reason.”

 _“Any_ time?” Luta asks incredulously.

Hawke points a finger at her. “Fenris, this child is spending too much time with Isabela.”

“I’m twelve, not five. Of course I know about —”

Fenris interrupts Luta, his lips twitching at the corners. “Where will we be staying, Hawke?”

“Uh. This way.” Hawke leads them down the hall, to the last door on the left. This leaves the guest room as a buffer between Leandra and the elves’ rooms.

“Hopefully this will give you enough privacy,” Hawke says, handing Fenris a key. “The master keys also work on this room, but if it would make you more comfortable, I can have a locksmith —”

“It’s fine, Hawke.” Fenris smiles softly at him. “Thank you.”

Hawke feels himself blush. _Damn it._

“No problem!” Hawke’s voice comes out squeaky. “With Carver off killing darkspawn somewhere, we have the extra space and coin.”

“Still, I can pay rent —”

“— not necessary, really —”

“— or help with cleaning —”

“— please, I’m happy just —”

Luta suddenly groans loudly, like she’s in pain.

“This is such a stupid argument! It’s killing me!”

Snatching the key from her father’s hand, Luta quickly unlocks the door and leaps inside. “Oh! The bed is huge — and the carpet! It’s velvet!”

Fenris stares at his now empty hand, still shocked.

Hawke tries to hide his grin. This is definitely the best idea he has ever had.

 

—————

 

“If my boy bothers either of you too much, just let me know!” Bodahn says.

“It’s fine. Sandal is…” Fenris trails off, a perplexed look on his face — like he has no idea _what_ Sandal is.

“Sandal is fun,” Luta pipes up. “I like him.”

“Enchantment!”

It’s Fenris and Luta’s first dinner at the Estate, and Bodahn has pulled out all the stops. They are on the second course now — mashed potatoes, gravy, and ram — and Fenris already looks full.

Luta keeps putting more ram on her plate without chewing anything, so Hawke is pretty sure that all the food is going under the table for Marmalade to eat.

“It’s so nice to have a girl in the house, again,” Leandra says.

Hawke thinks of Bethany and puts his fork down for a moment.

Leandra continues, “I can teach you how to sew! Or crochet! Or _embroider_.”

Luta exchanges a pained look with her father. Hawke decides to throw them a bone.

“Mother, didn’t you mention painting before? Why not show Luta that?”

Luta visibly perks up, and Leandra notices and laughs.

“Painting it is then! I’ll go out tomorrow and get supplies.”

Hawke feels relieved at his mother’s excitement. Since he returned from the expedition without Carver, she has been sad and downtrodden, although she tries not to show it.

“Sandal, my boy, you’re dropping all your food!”

Hawke glances over to see that Sandal is, indeed, dropping most of the food he picks up. A small pile of mashed potatoes has started to form in front of him.

“Enchantment!” Sandal points at Luta with his fork. More potatoes slides off and hits the table with a splat.

Bodahn flushes. He looks ready to yell, but Luta acts first by pointing right back at Sandal.

“Sandal!”

“Enchantment!”

“Sandal!” Luta croaks his name out with a deep, rasping voice. Sandal laughs.

“Enchantment!”

Luta pinches her nose. Her voice comes out very nasally. “Saandaaaaal.”

Sandal claps, and the cycle continues. Bodahn and Leandra watch the exchange with stunned expressions. Fenris just sighs and goes back to picking at his food. And Hawke…

He sneaks a lot more potatoes onto his plate with his mother distracted. Fenris notices and smirks at him, but says nothing. Like a true friend and ally.

 _Fenris is amazing,_ Hawke thinks as he shovels more food into his mouth.

 

—————

 

Hawke is in the middle of a fight with Varric — the blighted dwarf thinks that nugs are cuter than dogs — when Merrill taps him on the shoulder.

“Merrill!” Hawke gives her a one-armed hug. “How’s it going? Any progress on the mirror thing?”

Merrill giggles. “It’s an _eluvian,_ Hawke. And not yet… But I won’t give up!”

“We know you won’t, Daisy.” Varric stands up. “I’m going to get more ale. You guys want anything?”

“Do they have tea?” Merrill asks.

“… I’ll ask Corff. If they don’t?”

“Then I’ll have a beer! Thank you, Varric. I’ll pay you back.”

Varric shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. And you, Hawke?”

“I’ll take a refill.”

Varric leaves, empty mugs in hand. Merrill takes a seat next to Hawke and releases a deep breath.

“I need to tell you something,” she says softly. They’re alone in Varric’s room, but her eyes still dart around nervously, like every nook and cranny is home to a spy.

“Well, good thing I have ears,” Hawke says.

Merrill doesn’t smile at his joke. “It’s about Luta.”

Hawke blinks. “What about her?”

“You know that she sometimes visits Lia at the Alienage.”

“Yes.”

“Well, she was there earlier today. I saw her and Lia when I left my house. Normally I would just say hello, but there were these boys with them.”

Hawke taps his fingers against his thigh. This story is starting to make him anxious…

“They were definitely older than Luta and Lia. I thought maybe they were friends, but when I got closer, I heard them saying such mean things!”

Merrill frowns and sniffles a little, right as Varric comes back from the bar.

“Aw, Daisy. What’s wrong?” Varric sets the ale and beer down, and pulls out a handkerchief for Merrill. She isn’t actually crying, but Varric is the type to think ahead.

“She saw something upsetting today,” Hawke explains. “Apparently some older boys were picking on Luta and Lia in the Alienage today.”

“Seriously!?” Varric snorts and sits down in his seat again. He slides a mug of ale to Hawke, and one full of beer to Merrill.

“Is that hard to believe?”

“Not if those kids have a death wish… Look, Luta is pretty well-known in the Alienage by now — fact is, a kid with snow white hair is easy to remember.”

“That’s true,” Merrill mumbles.

“So, what else do they probably know about Luta?”

“That she’s an elf,” Hawke says.

Varric chuckles. “Yeah, they somehow figured that one out… I’m talking about Fenris, though. That he’s her father. It’s common knowledge around there.”

“Hmm… I don’t know —”

“You’re right, Varric!” Merrill slams her beer on the table with surprising strength. Some of it spills over the edge of the mug. “That’s what those horrible boys were saying!”

Between sips of his drink, Hawke asks, “They were saying Fenris is her father?”

“No — Well, yes? They were taunting Luta for… not having a mother.”

Hawke spits out his ale.

“I hope I remember to wash this table after you guys leave,” Varric mutters.

Hawke ignores him. He’s too busy gaping at Merrill. “What the blighted —”

“I mean, Lia doesn’t have a mother either but everybody knows that — that her mother is dead.” Merrill is picking up steam as she speaks. Or maybe she is becoming hysterical. Hawke can’t really tell. “So it’s kind of taboo to tease Lia about it. But they really went at Luta! They said such _awful things_ —”

Finally starting to cry, Merrill dabs at her face with the handkerchief. Hawke pats her in the back.

“Th-they said that Luta’s mother must have hated her. That Luta is a — a _freak,_ and no mother would love or want her.”

“That’s… really shitty. And uncreative,” Varric says. When Hawke glances at him, Varric looks deeply upset… and angry.

Hawke is sure that he has a similar look on his own face.

There have been times when Hawke’s mind has wandered and circled around Fenris. Among the things he has considered, the whereabouts of Luta’s mother is, naturally, very frequent.

But Fenris does not appreciate prying, so Hawke remains in the dark. He finds that it doesn’t matter much. _Fenris and Luta are here now_ , he reminds himself. _And they smile more with each passing day. That’s what matters._

The idea that others have also wondered, but — unlike Hawke — speculate and gossip about the possibilities…

Hawke hates them.

“That’s not all!” Merrill’s voice cracks. “Those awful boys told her that the only reason Fenris can stand her is because he’s a freak too! They told her that if he was normal, Fenris would hate her, too.”

Hawke breathes deeply through his nose. His fist clenches so tightly that his nails draw blood.

He can’t speak.

“What happened, Daisy? Did you stop them? Did Lia?”

Merrill shakes her head. “Lia didn’t seem to know what to do. And I was going to help — I swear I was —”

“We know, Daisy.”

“Oh. Well, I d-didn’t have to. I had a — a delayed reaction. I was just so shocked! By the time I ran over, Luta — she did something — I couldn’t see what —”

Varric frowns. “Did she get hurt?”

“No! She pulled a boy’s arm out of its socket!”

Hawke shares a startled glance with Varric.

“I still have no idea how she — Anyways, she won’t get in trouble. That awful boy won’t want to tell anybody that he was hurt by a girl younger than him. Also, just to be safe, I threatened to curse him —”

Varric cracks up, and Hawke can’t help but smile.

Merrill places a hand on Hawke’s shoulder and looks at him imploringly. “Hawke, I wanted to tell you this because Luta seemed upset. I don’t know if you should comfort her, or just tell Fenris what happened… Either way, they certainly won’t accept any help from me.”

Hawke sighs. Fenris has been living with him for a month, now. Hawke can certainly get a moment alone with the elf.

“I’ve got it, Merrill. I’ll speak to Fenris.”

 

—————

 

By the time his parents decided to settle in Lothering, Garrett was already sixteen. Lothering was nothing special, in his opinion; it looked — and smelled — like every other village they had called home. And there had been _many_ villages over the years.

Distant shopkeepers, cold neighbors, and zero friends. Those were the people consistently drifting in and out of Garrett Hawke’s life. It bothered Garrett as a child. His siblings were the only ones he could play with, and they were seven years younger. The desire to find more, feel more, _be_ more plagued Garrett’s mind for years.

But by sixteen, he was old enough to know better. He was an apostate. A mage. There would never be a warm welcome for him anywhere. So why wait for one?

Garrett Hawke stopped caring about what (most) people thought of him.

 _That Garrett Hawke is a strange boy._ Then Garrett could say even his strangest thoughts out loud. It would make no difference.

 _The Hawke family will disrupt our lives. They will bring us nothing but trouble_. If the villagers already saw his family in such light, then why fight it? Garrett stopped walking on egg shells; he swept them away from beneath his feet, and from that moment forward, he moved with certainty and pride.

 _We have no space for these people_. Garrett had the Fade at his fingertips. He damn well _made_ his own space.

Lothering was never responsible for the confidence and the attitude that Hawke now possesses. But it was the place where Garrett Hawke stopped pretending to be ‘normal.’ It was the place where Garrett first felt comfortable in his own skin.

It was his first home.

He thinks Kirkwall can be a home, too.

 

—————

 

Hawke returns home before dinner to find a very worried Bodahn.

“It’s the young mistress,” Bodahn says quietly. Hawke has to bend down to hear him. “Locked herself in her room… She hasn’t made a peep since — not when Mistress Leandra offered to paint with her. Not when I asked if she’d like something special for dinner… Even Sandal can’t get a response.”

Considering how much Luta seems to like Sandal, this is troubling news, indeed.

“Where’s Fenris?”

“Off with Captain Aveline, I think.”

Hawke frowns. “When Luta left here earlier today, was there an adult with her?”

“No, but that Lia girl came to pick her up. Master Fenris said it was fine.”

“Hm.”

Hawke considers waiting for Fenris to return, but Luta’s behavior is too concerning.

He can’t bear to leave her like that.

“I’m going to speak to Luta.”

“Oh, thank the Stone.” Bodahn releases a deep breath.

“Right. And Bodahn —”

“Yes, Master Hawke?”

“I know you think you’re being a proper steward or something, but please stop using the terms Master and Mistress. Especially with Fenris and Luta living here.”

“Oh!” Bodahn smacks himself on the forehead. “Of course, serah. I’ll work on that.”

“Thanks.”

Hawke passes a sad-faced Sandal on the way to his room. Hawke stops to pat his shoulder; Luta is not the only one fond of the boy.

“It will be alright, Sandal,” he says softly. “Luta is… having a bad day. Just be patient.”

Sandal blinks at him.

Hawke sighs and leaves him be. In his room, he finds Marmalade chasing her own stubby tail.

_At least someone is in good spirits._

After taking his armor and equipment off, Hawke pulls on his house clothes. They’re soft and made of silk. Hawke loves them; he thinks they are the peak of comfort.

And after his talk with Luta, he may need all the comfort he can get.

When Hawke knocks on Fenris’ door, nobody answers.

“Luta?”

No response. Hawke sighs and tries again.

“Luta, I know you’re in there. Bodahn told me.”

Still nothing.

“Please let me in.”

…

“Or we could talk through the door, if you’d prefer. It’s up to you.”

…

Hawke takes a deep breath. “Look… Merrill told me about what happened today, so —”

The door swings open suddenly, and Hawke jumps back. Luta scowls up at him.

Hawke gulps. “Can we talk?”

“… Fine.” Luta steps aside. Hawke enters, and the door clicks shut behind him.

In one corner of the room, there’s a small table with two chairs, each seat adorned with a cushion. Hawke chooses one and sinks into it.

Luta stays standing, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Hawke hopes the anger on her face is residual from her fight earlier, and not directed at him.

“So.” His voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat. “Like I said, Merrill told me about what happened. About those boys in the Alienage —”

Luta scoffs. “It’s not her business.”

“It is, actually.” Hawke starts to tap his fingers nervously. The wood under his nails is polished — Bodahn has been cleaning in here, then. “All of us care about you, so anything that hurts you concerns us.”

She scoffs again, but doesn’t say anything. Hawke takes it as a victory.

“Listen, Luta, I’m not interfering out of — of morbid curiosity. I’m interfering because this has clearly upset you _a lot_ , and as long as I can help it, nothing in this world is going to hurt or hinder you.”

Luta looks away from him, still scowling. “That is an incredibly unrealistic expectation.”

“Well, good thing it’s not an expectation.” Hawke stops tapping his fingers so he can cross his arms, too. “It’s a responsibility.”

“Nugshit!” Luta spits, glaring at him again. “You may like my father, but that doesn’t make you responsible for me! _Leave me out of it!”_

Hawke’s jaw drops. Even at her angriest and meanest, Luta has never gone for the jugular like this… She certainly hasn’t brought up Hawke’s feelings for Fenris.

In fact, the past three years convinced Hawke that Luta never noticed anything beyond friendship between him and her father. But she definitely just proved that wrong…

Hawke slowly shakes his head. “I’m not responsible for you because — because of your father. I’m responsible for you because I care about _you,_ and you are a _child._ I am an adult.”

“I don’t care —”

“Too bloody bad, ‘cause I do!” Hawke snaps.

His tone doesn’t make Luta flinch, but she does fall silent. Disquiet replaces the anger on her face.

“Sorry,” Hawke mutters.

Luta says nothing for a moment. When she finally does speak, her voice is soft and somber.

“I am sorry, too,” she says. “I know you well enough by now to believe in your good intentions. It’s just…”

She trails off. Her gaze moves to her feet, and Hawke feels something heavy in his throat. It’s been over a year since Luta last lowered her eyes in front of him.

He doesn’t like it.

Scrambling for a way to reassure her, Hawke scratches at his beard. After a moment, he takes a gamble and says, “Luta… I know you pretty well, too. It’s okay. I understand.”

“… Thanks.” Luta’s posture relaxes, and she finally sits down in the other chair.

Hawke doesn’t say anything more. He can tell that she is gathering courage to speak again, so he takes some time to look around the room.

Fenris and Luta haven’t done much with it. The only additions he sees are a couple of parchment rolls on a nightstand — probably for Luta’s art — and a vase on the table with a single, wilting flower. _Merrill…_ He wonders how she snuck it in here.

“I don’t want to listen to those assholes.”

Hawke returns his attention to Luta. Her voice is wobbly.

“I mean, _they_ don’t know my father,” she says. “ _I_ know my father. So… I should place my faith in my own opinions.”

“That makes sense,” Hawke agrees.

“But… deep down, my opinion isn’t far from theirs.”

Hawke blinks at her. “What?”

Luta heaves a world-weary sigh. “I don’t know my other parent. What if they hated me? Because — because I was born like _this._ ”

She gestures to her hair, white like winter snow. Hawke shakes his head, but that just makes Luta’s scowl deepen.

“Don’t tell me I’m normal,” she snaps. “I see how people stare at me — at my father, too! We’re strange and alienated and — and I wonder if that’s what Pati’s partner saw, when I was born. The world’s strangest baby. Maybe that’s why they left Pati all alone... Because Pati has never told me, and the only reason to hide my own parent from me is if it is _my fault_ that they are gone!”

The long-winded speech leaves Luta gasping for breath. Hawke snaps his jaw shut again.

“First of all,” Hawke says, ducking his head in order to catch Luta’s eye, “if it bothers you to not know about your mother, just try _asking_ Fenris. I doubt he keeps anything from you on purpose.”

Luta frowns, but says nothing.

Hawke continues, “Luta, being different doesn’t make you _less_... It just — makes you different. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“… Why not?”

“Because… You are who you are. Why fight it when you can _own_ it?”

Luta raises her head a little and blinks at him. Her eyes look darker than usual behind her white lashes.

Hawke sighs inaudibly. “Look, you think your appearance makes you some kind of freak. But I think you’re adorable! And I’m positive Varric and Merrill agree with me. And if you think your past makes you strange and unfit for society — it doesn’t! It makes you strong, Luta. When those bastards taunted you today, did you hesitate like Lia? Or freeze like Merrill?”

“… No.”

“That’s right. You didn’t. Instead, you kicked ass! You’re amazing, Luta.”

Luta’s frown shifts from upset to thoughtful. She tilts her head and asks Hawke, “Is that how you see my father? As someone amazing?”

After some brief hesitation, Hawke nods.

Luta opens her mouth to say more, but at that exact moment, the door opens. Fenris walks in, still fully decked in armor. His brows are furrowed.

“Hawke?” His eyes flick from to Hawke to Luta and back again. “What’s going on?”

Hawke stands. “I’ll let Luta fill you in. Think about what I said, Luta.”

Hawke can feel the burn of Fenris’ gaze on his back as he leaves. He resists the urge to stare right back.

 

—————

 

Fenris and Luta don’t appear for dinner. Bodahn and Leandra give Hawke concerned glances, but he shakes his head and gestures for them to start eating.

He knows that whatever the elves are working through, it will take time. Time that Hawke intends to give them.

Sandal is still downtrodden without Luta’s presence, but Leandra distracts the boy well enough with questions about runes. Sandal’s responses aren’t really answers — more shouts of “Enchantment!” for the most part — but at least the distraction cheers him up a little.

Later, lying awake in bed, Hawke struggles to calm his mind and rest. Sleep is out of reach, though. Memories of Luta’s distraught face keep him awake and antsy.

Eventually, he gives in and whistles softly. In the darkness he hears Marmalade wake. Hawke pats the bedding, and Marmalade gives a happy whine before jumping onto the bed.

“Just this once,” Hawke says.

Marmalade ignores him, curling up immediately and cuddling into his side. Gently trailing his fingers through her fur, Hawke finally drifts off to sleep.

(His last thoughts are of his father. Marmalade had loved Malcolm, had determinedly slept at his side until his dying breath. It was a comfort to her.

Hawke knows it was a comfort to Malcolm as well.)

 

—————

 

“Hawke, can I talk to you?”

Hawke looks up from the pile of breakfast dishes he was gathering — he hated making Bodahn do all the work — to see Luta, fidgeting in the dining room’s doorway.

“Of course,” Hawke says. “You don’t even have to ask. Just start blabbing and my nosy self will immediately start to listen.”

Luta’s lips twitch. “Noted… Would you be okay with joining me on a walk to the Alienage? We can talk on the way.”

“Sure. Does your father know where you’re going?”

Luta shakes her head. “He’s visiting Varric about something. I was going to leave after he did.”

Frowning, Hawke raises a brow at her. “You don’t want Fenris to know?”

“No…” Luta shifts her feet nervously. “I’ll tell you why on the way. Please, Hawke?”

That is a very unfair tactic. Hawke already finds it difficult to say no to Luta. When she says please?

_I never stood a chance, did I?_

“We’ll leave a few minutes after Fenris does. That sound good?”

Luta beams at him. “Yes! I’ll meet you in the foyer.”

“Fine by me.”

 

—————

 

Hawke knows when Fenris leaves because Bodahn, as usual, bids him a very loud farewell. On his way out, Hawke tells Bodahn where he and Luta are heading — he doesn’t want Fenris to panic if he gets back before they do — and gives Marmalade one last belly rub.

Luta is already waiting by the front door when he enters the foyer. She has a satchel flung over her olive green tunic, and a dark brown hood covers her hair. Hawke stares at the hood.

“What — is that new?”

Luta shrugs. “Isabela gave it to me weeks ago. Now let’s go!”

She grabs Hawke by the elbow and starts dragging him out the door. Her pulling doesn’t actually affect him in any way, so Hawke jogs a little to pick up the pace. His eyes stay fixated on her hood. He recalls their conversation yesterday, the hatred that Luta felt for her own appearance, and worries.

But his concern doesn’t last very long. As they pass a neighbor’s house, Luta abruptly stops and looks around. Hawke, curious, follows suit. Nobody so much as glances in their direction. With Luta’s unusual hair covered and Hawke dressed, as usual, in common armor, there’s nothing special to attract attention.

Hawke looks at Luta again, just in time to see her pull some flowers from the neighbor’s window planter.

… Now it’s pretty clear why she wanted to hide under a hood.

“What are you doing?”

“I need something for Merrill,” Luta explains. She gently places the flowers in her satchel’s outer pocket. They resume walking as she speaks. “Pati is planning on asking her which boys were taunting me yesterday, and she’ll tell him if I don’t warn her first.”

A decent plan, in Hawke’s opinion. Merrill likes Fenris, despite his constant irritation in her presence, so if he asks something of her, she will probably give it to him without question.

“You don’t want your father to scare the shit out of those bastards?” Hawke asks.

“I don’t want the entire Alienage after his head. And it will be, if Pati reaches into someone’s chest and squeezes their organs.”

“… Fair point.”

They enter Hightown’s market square, and Hawke guides Luta around a couple of arguing merchants.

“So,” Hawke says, “how did that talk with your father go last night?”

Frowning, Luta speaks softly. “He wouldn’t tell me about my other parent, but he said it has nothing to do with anything I’ve done. He said he just isn’t ready to talk about it.”

This surprises Hawke. It’s the first time — to his knowledge — that Fenris has kept information from Luta...

Still, Fenris must have his reasons, so Hawke brushes the subject from his mind. He keeps a close eye on Luta as they descend the stairs to Lowtown. She pulls her hood off and shoves it in the satchel, allowing the wind to flow through her hair.

Hawke smiles, then asks, “Are you alright with that? With not knowing?”

Luta nods. “Pati is always patient with me… I can be patient for him, too.”

“I’m glad. You’re a good kid, Luta.”

Luta beams at him. Hawke waits until they reach the final step to tousle her hair. Waiting is a good call on his part. Luta scowls and slaps his hand away, then kicks him hard in the leg; if they were still on the stairs, she probably would have tumbled down the steps.

When her attacks fail to affect him in any way, Luta tries pushing him into a nearby stack of crates. Hawke just laughs at her.

She gives up, grumbling, and Hawke grins.

He finds that an annoyed Luta is still an adorable Luta.

… It’s a key difference between her and Fenris. An annoyed Fenris isn’t adorable at all. He’s intimidating and, at times, terrifying.

Hawke likes that too, though.

 

—————

 

A few weeks later, Hawke wakes up to a floorboard creaking. Yawning, he slips out of bed and drags his house-robe on. Marmalade lifts her head. He scratches behind her ear, and she falls back asleep.

Outside his room, Hawke finds Fenris staring out the balcony windows. It’s surprising; this is the first time Hawke has seen Fenris leave his room at night.

“Can’t sleep?”

Fenris doesn’t startle. “No. After last night…”

Hawke winces. Last night, he physically went into the Fade with Varric, Anders, and Fenris. They managed to save Feynriel from his own powers, but…

Fenris gave in to the pride demon’s temptations.

“I cannot apologize enough,” Fenris croaks out. “What a hypocrite am I, to call mages weak for dealing with demons, only to turn around and do it myself.”

Hawke hums thoughtfully. “Well, mages expect it. You were unprepared —”

Fenris cuts him off with a groan, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling instead of the stars. Hawke finds himself staring at the lines of lyrium trailing down Fenris’ neck. He forcibly looks away.

“You are always too forgiving, Hawke,” Fenris says. “You need to place a limit on your kindness. I would have _killed_ you at the demon’s behest! You should hate me for that. Throw me out of your home —”

“No!”

Fenris jumps at Hawke’s shout.

Sheepishly, Hawke says, “Sorry… But, Fenris, even if I blamed you for what happened, I still could never kick you out. I certainly couldn’t hate you!”

In the moonlight, Fenris’ eyes shine. Hawke can see how wide they are.

“And I _don’t_ blame you, so it’s all a moot point, anyway.”

Fenris laughs. It’s a stuttering, disbelieving sound. “You — you do not _blame_ me? I tried to kill you! And Varric! And — well, I don’t care much about the abomination, but you do! How can you not — not —”

“I heard every word of its offer, Fenris. Honestly, I would have been more worried if you _hadn’t_ accepted!”

Fenris stares at him incredulously.

Hawke sighs. “I know you would do anything to keep Luta safe. I know how badly the Imperium terrifies you. And I understand! I really… I care about her, too.”

After a long moment of silence, Fenris gazes out the window again.

“I appreciate your kindness,” he says softly. “Even if I don’t deserve it… You are right, though. When I look out this window and remember what is hunting us, I feel a horrible envy…”

Fenris leans closer to the window. Hawke joins him, though he ends up staring at Fenris as much as the night sky.

“I wish I could have that. Even more so, I wish Luta could have it… The freedom of the stars.”

 

—————

 

“I can’t believe you dragged me away from the clinic just to play matchmaker.”

“Shut up, Anders. This is good for our big girl! She can finally get laid after four years.”

“… Wait, are you serious?”

Hawke sighs. “Isabela, that is not information you should be sharing.”

“Yeah, well, it’s information that shouldn’t be _true_.”

“Hm. I think you’re just insulted because Aveline never considered you,” Fenris says to Isabela.

She gasps, then pretends to gag. “Gross! No! If I wanted Aveline, you would _know_.”

Hawke grimaces. He knows what’s coming next.

“Obviously, the one I want and have wanted for the past _three years_ is —”

“Hey!”

Hawke looks up. The shout came from a soldier on a nearby cliff. Next to him is a mage wearing very distinct robes.

Tevinter robes.

“Shit,” Hawke mutters. He pulls his staff out. There’s no danger of Templars here.

“Hand over that slave!”

That makes Hawke very, very angry. He already hates slavery on principle; he hates it even more for what it has done to Fenris.

“He is _not_ a slave!” Underneath the roar of his voice, Hawke hears Isabela’s daggers slide out of their sheaths.

The soldier laughs. More men come pouring out of the hillsides, surrounding Hawke and his friends.

“He is a slave by Imperium law. Hand —”

Fenris snarls. The lyrium lights up, and he viciously rips the heart out of the nearest enemy.

“Shut up!” Fenris throws the heart to the ground. _“You will all die!”_

And they do.

It takes effort. There’s a ridiculous number of men, and the mage isn’t alone. Hawke gestures for Isabela to sneak up on one, while he engages the other. Fenris is ripping apart soldiers with no apparent effort, but Hawke knows he will reach his limit soon. Thankfully, Hawke has a powerful fire spell up his sleeve. The flames distract many soldiers and kill some others.

Another blue glow to Hawke’s left signals Justice’s arrival. Hawke hears an angry, inhuman shout, then with another bright light, several enemies incinerate in their armor.

The blood mage fighting Hawke is experienced, but he seems more used to dueling than real battle. The only thing that keeps him safe from Hawke is the blood of the fallen. It rises up and surrounds the other mage, forming a barrier.

Hawke has to be careful. There’s a lot more blood, and the next time the mage uses it, the spell probably won’t be defensive.

While he waits for the other’s barrier to dissipate, Hawke sends a blast of ice across some other enemies. Some freeze in place, making them easy pray for Fenris’ sword.

The other mage finally loses his barrier. He slams his staff into the ground, and more blood rises towards him. Backing up, Hawke moves out of the mage’s range.

“Anders! I need a glyph for this one!”

Something bright greens appears before Hawke’s enemy. The idiot doesn’t notice and steps forward, lured by Hawke.

The mage stops. Hawke prepares an ice spell.

“Wait!”

Hawke’s spell dies out as Fenris lunges forward, grabbing the blood mage by the collar. His other hand, alight with lyrium, reaches into the man’s chest.

The mage chokes and gasps, eyes wide.

“Where is he!?”

The mage shakes his head. “I don’t — I don’t know who —”

Fenris’ forearm shifts. The mage screams.

“Don’t play games with me!” Fenris hisses. “I know Danarius sent you! Where is that coward hiding!?”

The other shakes his head frantically. “Was — wasn’t a man. A woman. D-dark hair. A mage —”

“Hadriana.” Fenris growls the name. “Where is _she_ , then?”

“I-I —”

“ _I_ am losing my patience. Tell me now!”

“Old smugglers’ caverns. O-off the coast, near a bay. Slavers — slavers use them n-now.”

“Ah.”

“I can sh-show you where —”

“No need,” Fenris says, voice gravelly. “I know the caverns of which you speak.”

Without warning, he rips his hand out of the mage’s chest, heart with it. The corpse falls. Hawke pities him as much as he pities any slaver — not at all.

Fenris turns to Hawke. There’s a dark look on his face that Hawke hasn’t seen in a while.

“Hadriana is one of Danarius’s apprentices. She’s a cruel blood mage who won’t rest until Danarius’s demands are met. We have to go after her now!”

“Hold on —”

Fenris scowls. “This cannot wait! Every second is more time for her to —”

“Luta!”

Her name wipes the anger from Fenris’ face.

“Luta is back at Kirkwall,” Hawke continues. “What if this Hadriana person sent soldiers after her?”

Fenris looks away. Hawke still sees how pale he turns.

“That is why we must hurry,” Fenris insists. “Hawke, either she is still safe in Kirkwall or she is in Hadriana’s clutches. We have to leave now!”

“… Fine. Let’s go.”

“I — Really?”

“Of course!”

“Right on time.” Isabela’s voice startles Hawke. He forgot she and Anders were there. “I just finished looting these bodies. These Tevinter bastards are flushed with riches, aren’t they?”

Isabela grins, sauntering over to Fenris and slinging an arm around his shoulder.

“Let’s go take their gold.”

 

—————

 

It turns out that there is a third option for Luta’s whereabouts, as Hawke and the others discover upon approaching the caverns.

“Oh, good. I was worried you guys were going to show up later rather than sooner.”

Hawke stares at Varric in disbelief. Merrill, Sebastian, and Luta are with him, all hiding behind a rock outcrop — probably spying on the group of slavers camped farther ahead.

“Varric,” Fenris says, voice falsely calm, “why are you here?”

“Don’t give me that look, Elf. A bunch of mercenaries tried to attack me and kidnap Caramel.”

“Called it,” Hawke says. A glare from Fenris shuts him up right away.

“Good for you, Hawke.” Varric grins at him. “Those mercenaries made the mistake of ambushing us in the Hanged Man… Do you know the one thing you should never do in the Hanged Man?”

“Eat,” Sebastian says.

“Show restraint!” _Typical Isabela._

“Be in the Hanged Man in the first place,” Anders guesses. Isabela punches his arm.

Luta says, “Bother Norah.”

Shaking his head at all of them, Varric says, “You should never attack one Varric Tethras. I have connections in many places, but the Hanged Man?” Varric pulls out Bianca with unnecessary flourish. “That’s _my_ kingdom.”

Fenris stares at him.

“Everyone there took arms. They ripped the bastards apart!” Luta’s explanation is much simpler and shorter than Varric’s.

Fenris says, “Ah,” and nods.

“Seriously?” Varric grumbles. “I’m the storyteller, why do you want to hear the boring version?”

Merrill pats his shoulder consolingly. “I liked your way, Varric!”

“Thanks, Daisy. Anyways, it wasn’t hard to get one of them to fess up. We find out they were after you, too, Elf.”

“Varric and Luta found Merrill and me,” Sebastian says. “Of course, we agreed to lend our aid.”

“So here we are!” Varric spreads his arms wide. “Ready to help.”

“… That’s nice,” Fenris says. A muscle in his jaw twitches. “So why did you think it a good idea to bring my daughter with you?”

“She wanted to know if you were alri—”

“I can help!” Luta pipes up, cutting off Varric. She pulls a couple of daggers seemingly out of nowhere. “I know how to fight!”

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s not too shabby with knives, actually.”

“Isabela, I asked you to mentor her so that Luta can fight whenever she _must,_ not whenever she wants!”

Luta scowls at her father. “Well, I _must_ fight right now!”

“This not up for debate, Luta!” Fenris hisses. “We have already discussed this many times. I need you safe!”

A long, tense silence reigns over everyone. Luta glares up at Fenris, and he glares right back. It’s the first time in years that Hawke has seen them fight.

He really, really hates it.

So he speaks up. “Luta, why do you want to fight so badly?”

His question surprises Luta. The scowl drops from her face, and she turns her gaze to Hawke.

“Pati fights to protect me all the time,” she says, very softly. “I want to protect him, too.”

_That. Is. Too. Cute._

Merrill apparently agrees with Hawke, because she squeals and claps her hands. Anders shushes her, glancing worriedly towards the slaver camp.

Fenris sighs. Ignoring everybody else, he steps closer to Luta and kneels. She’s now tall enough that Fenris has to look up into her eyes.

“I know, Luta,” he says. “I know you do. But… Please understand. There is no wound or insult I cannot bear if it means I can keep you by my side. You are my child. To lose you… It would be the end of everything.”

Hawke looks away, taking deep, even breaths to calm himself.

(He thinks of the bitter way his mother spoke to him as she cradled Bethany’s corpse. Of the way she collapsed on the floor of Gamlen’s shack when she realized Hawke had returned without Carver. Of how she locks herself in her room after sunset, and how Hawke can hear her weeping when he passes her door.)

“If you want to protect me,” Fenris says, “then you must protect yourself above all else.”

“But —”

Fenris cuts Luta off. “I know. I know how selfish I am, to ask this of you. But I am not perfect, Luta. I do not have the strength to survive losing you.”

More silence. Hawke looks back in time to see Luta nod her head, albeit reluctantly.

Fenris heaves a relieved sigh. He pulls Luta into his arms, murmuring thanks into her hair.

Again, Hawke looks away, this time to study the enemies ahead of them. There are at least a dozen slavers with swords, and several with bows. He can also make out some with daggers and — his hand twitches around his staff — a few in Tevinter mage robes.

“Varric, Anders,” Hawke calls. “I need you to stay with Luta, just in case. The rest of us will clear out the taverns and get rid of this Hadriana woman.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Anders says. Hawke ignores his sarcastic salute.

“You got it, Hawke.” Varric pauses, then glances around. “By the way, where’s Aveline?”

Hawke flinches. “We… never made it to her patrol route.”

Varric bursts out laughing. Hawke tries to pinch his arm in retaliation, but the dwarf is too fast.

“Don’t worry,” Varric says after he finally calms down. “Aveline won’t be too mad about you ditching her — especially after she finds out what happened.”

“I know. We’ll just have to help Aveline another day.”

“Big girl can handle herself,” Isabela adds, leaning on Hawke. “I mean, we didn’t clear the patrol route, so she and Donnic will spend their time together killing giant spiders and shit. That’s Aveline’s specialty.”

Hawke shakes Isabela off of him. She pouts, then turns pointedly to Fenris as he releases Luta.

Fenris stands and steps back.

“I will return to you soon,” he says softly. After one last tender brush of his hand through Luta’s hair, Fenris readies his sword.

“Alright,” Hawke says. “Let’s kill ourselves some slavers.”

 

—————

 

When Hawke exits the caverns, he knows — deep down — that Fenris won’t be waiting outside for him.

Sure enough, Fenris is nowhere in sight. Hawke sighs, then notices Orana several feet away, talking to Luta. Varric and Anders are in a deep conversation of their own, it seems.

When Hawke approaches them, Orana abruptly stops talking and stands straighter, her hands folded and fidgeting in front of her.

“Master Hawke,” she greets him. He winces. “I found these people like you told me to, but they insisted —”

“It’s fine, Orana,” Hawke interjects. “And please don’t call me Master. Just Hawke is fine.”

She blinks at him, confused, but doesn’t ask any questions.

Luta nudges Hawke with her foot. “What happened? Pati came out and said everyone was fine, but then he ran… Is he okay?”

Hawke sighs. “I don’t know, Luta. He’s… upset. You can talk to him about it back at the estate.”

“… Okay.”

But when Luta, Hawke, and Orana reach the estate — everyone else having parted ways — Fenris is nowhere in sight.

It worries Hawke. Not because he thinks Fenris is in danger, but because Fenris is alone and, knowing him, wallowing in self-hatred and resentment.

Hawke wants to search for Fenris, but Luta comes first. She has already flung herself from room to room in search of him, and with each second that her father does not appear, Luta loses more of herself in her anxiety.

Bodahn tries to calm her down while Leandra speaks to Hawke and Orana.

“Who is this?” Leandra frowns at Hawke. “What is going on?”

“Fenris is upset, we killed a Tevinter mage that was trying to capture him, and this is Orana, a slave that belonged to said mage.”

Leandra gapes at him.

“I offered her a job here?” Hawke offers his mother a sheepish smile.

“As a _slave?”_

“What? No! As a servant. Maker’s Breath, Mother, of course I didn’t bring her here as a slave!”

Does Hawke come across as someone who would own slaves? Fenris accused him of it, too, back in the caverns. At the time, Hawke thought it was just nerves getting to Fenris, but what if the problem was actually Hawke himself?

Leandra sighs and pats him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, but your wording was poor.”

 _Oh._ “Still…”

His mother smiles at him, then at Orana. “You’re awfully quiet, aren’t you?”

Orana pales. She curtsies hurriedly, bowing her head at Leandra. “My apologies, Mistress. I meant no offense.”

Leandra chuckles and waves a hand. “No offense taken, dear. And please, call me Leandra.”

The words — clearly meant to be reassuring — only terrify Orana more. She shakes a little, and glances around uncertainly, like some divine intervention will guide her through this…

Hawke has an idea.

“Luta!”

Across the hall, Luta’s head swivels toward Hawke; she still looks distraught. Next to her, a frazzled Bodahn sighs in relief.

“Can you come over here?”

Luta darts over. “What? Where’s Pati? Did you —”

“Calm down,” Hawke says, ruffling her hair. “Your father just needed some time alone, I think.”

Luta scowls at him.

“I’ll go look for him,” Hawke promises. “In the meantime, can you help Orana settle in? I don’t know how much she has told you…”

Orana looks down at her feet. Luta studies her with a critical eye.

“Not much. She mostly just asked questions about you.”

Probably to find out more about her new ‘master.’ Hawke stifles a sigh.

“Orana, this is Luta. She lives here with her father. They’re close friends of mine.”

Blinking at Luta, Orana curtsies. “It is an honor to meet you, Mistress.”

Luta frowns and narrows her eyes at Hawke.

“Orana, you don’t have to refer to anybody here as Master or Mistress. Not me, but also not my mother, or Bodahn, or Luta, or anybody.”

This only confuses her again.

Hawke glances imploringly at Luta. “Orana here just lost her father. Hadriana killed him.”

“Mistress needed blood,” Orana supplies nervously, as if that somehow justifies the cold-blooded murder of her father.

Luta’s eyes flick from Orana to Hawke, and back again. “When you say Hadriana, do you mean —?”

“Orana was a slave,” Leandra says, taking over for Hawke. “We want to hire her as a servant, so she can start a new life as a free woman, here in Kirkwall.”

Hawke rests a hand on Luta’s shoulder. “I was hoping you would give her a tour of the estate. Maybe introduce her to Sandal.”

Luta grumbles something. Hawke can see the turmoil in her thoughts reflected on her face. The choice between seeking out her father, like she wants, or helping Orana — an elf, a freed slave, an orphan.

“Come on,” Luta finally says to Orana. “I’ll show you the kitchen first.”

Hawke waits until they are out of earshot before speaking to his mother. “I’m going to look around Kirkwall for Fenris.”

“Good luck, dear. Bodahn and I will find a room for Orana. Maybe we can clear out the storage room…”

Leandra wanders off, and Hawke turns on his heels. He whistles for Marmalade.

“Come on, girl. Let’s find Fenris.”

 

—————

 

They search everywhere. Hightown, Lowtown, Darktown. Every tavern, every shop, every corner. Hawke asks any friendly faces if they’ve seen Fenris — the answer is always no. He enters all the inns and asks the desk clerks if a white-haired elf checked in. Still no.

When he stops by his friends, they all give him the same answer. Some give him advice, but not the kind he wants to hear.

“Give the elf some space, Hawke. I don’t know what happened in that cave, but he didn’t look too happy when he ran out. You’re asking for trouble if you chase him down now.”

“Of course I don’t know where Fenris is. Unless he happens to be in my bed, I’m not interested in knowing.”

“Fenris? I haven’t seen him. It’s a shame. I find that the Chant can bring peace in times of inner turmoil.”

“Look, I understand why you couldn’t help me earlier, but it set my whole schedule back. I’m too busy to keep an eye on Fenris right now… I’m sorry, Hawke.”

“Fenris? He wasn’t at your house? Oh! I can help look — oh, okay. I’ll wait here and let you know if he comes by the Alienage.”

“You _want_ to see Fenris? Hawke, I know you normally find his taciturn nature cute, but this is a whole new level. I saw his face when he ran out of there. If he sees you, it won’t end happily.”

Of course, Hawke ignores them.

In the end, he even checks Fenris’ old mansion. Nobody has purchased it since it was vacated — too shabby, probably. He lets Marmalade act as lookout while he finds a broken window to climb through. There’s nobody lurking inside, though. Even the wine cellar is empty.

Hawke finally returns to the estate a little after midnight. He hopes Fenris isn’t at the Wounded Coast. It’s dangerous enough in the daytime…

Closing the door behind Marmalade, Hawke absentmindedly scratches her under the chin. He doesn’t know what to tell Luta.

“Hawke.”

He spins around, and the sight of Fenris, slouching on a bench in Hawke’s foyer after such a long search, nearly sends Hawke to his knees.

“Thank the Maker,” he breathes. Marmalade scurries off, but Hawke barely notices.

Fenris stands and walks closer. Hawke feels a desperate need to pull him into his arms.

He resists.

“I looked everywhere for you,” Hawke says. “I was worried. Luta was nearly out of her mind —”

Fenris flinches and turns his gaze to the ground. Hawke stops. Despite the silence, he can almost hear the tension in the air, like crackling electricity.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Hawke finally says. His voice is soft.

“I’m sorry… There were arrangements I needed to make.”

“Arrangements? What arrangements?”

Fenris shakes his head. “Never mind that. I have to apologize. What I said earlier… It was too harsh. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Oh.” Hawke takes a deep breath. “It’s alright, Fenris. I understand.”

Fenris scoffs, crossing his arms. “That’s all you ever say. ‘I understand.’ Why are you so kind to me, Hawke? I’m aware of the type of person that I am.”

Hawke tries to interrupt Fenris, to derail his tirade of self-hatred, but Fenris speaks over him and startles him into silence.

“I was going to let her live, you know. Hadriana. I intended to, after she told me about my sister. But with her life in my hands, I couldn’t… She used to deny my meals, you know. She tormented me. Ridiculed me. She knew that, as a slave, I could never retaliate. So when I finally had my chance at revenge, it didn’t matter that I intended to let her live. I _needed_ to kill her. And I did.”

Fenris sighs and stares down at his hands. There is still blood dried and peeling along the grooves in his gauntlets.

“That’s the kind of man I am, Hawke.” Fenris says, his shoulders sagging. “One without mercy, without honor, without hope.”

“Fenris,” Hawke says. His voice sounds grating to his own ears, so he clears his throat. “Don’t — don’t say such things. So what if you killed her? She _deserved_ to die.”

“It’s not about what she deserved!” Fenris snaps. “It is this hatred inside of me! Every time I think I’m rid of it, that — that fury and abhorrence comes surging back. It is a constant plague! I —”

Fenris cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I should not burden you with this… I just wanted to apologize for how harshly I treated you. I’ll take my leave.”

He turns away from Hawke, towards the main hall. And Hawke —

“Please, Fenris.” He grabs Fenris by the hand. “You don’t have to leave.”

Hawke doesn’t know why — if Fenris is startled, angry, or a combination of the two — but the elf turns and shoves Hawke into the wall with his usual strength. The lyrium in his skin glows bright blue for a moment.

Hawke stares into his eyes. Watches as the anger fades and regret takes its place.

Fenris steps back. Hawke steps forward.

Maybe it’s the green of Fenris’ eyes. Maybe it’s the moonlight reflecting off of his hair. Maybe it’s just the surge of affection that rises within Hawke, unbidden and uncontrollable.

He kisses Fenris.

And when Fenris kisses him back, Hawke feels like the world has fallen at his feet. Like a thousand dragons couldn’t stop him now.

Swiping his tongue across Fenris’ lips, Hawke spins them around. Fenris moans as his back presses against the wall. Arms curl around Hawke’s neck. A lithe body flushes close to his.

Hawke stops for breath. Fenris takes a fistful if his hair and pulls him back down.

Their lips meet again. And again.

“Fenris,” Hawke murmurs, moving his lips to trail down Fenris’ neck. The lyrium in his skin sings to Hawke. “Fenris, I love you.”

Fenris pushes him away.

Hawke stumbles, confused but mostly worried.

“Fenris?”

Face pale, Fenris shakes his head at Hawke. “I’m sorry, Hawke. I’m so sorry. I can’t —”

There are tears gathering in Hawke’s eyes. He tries to hold them back.

“What do you mean, ‘sorry’? What’s wrong?”

Fenris just keeps shaking his head. “I can’t do this. I — Hawke, I — I’m sorry — so sorry —”

Hawke turns his head away. He doesn’t want Fenris to know how badly this has hurt him. It’s not like he expected Fenris to love him back, but he thought — Fenris had started flirting back after Hawke returned from the expedition — he thought, maybe —

Hawke feels Fenris bolt past him. The estate door slams open and shut.

Hawke takes a deep breath.

_Shit._

He lets the tears fall.

Marmalade is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He pats her head, his motions mechanical and thoughtless.

_Shit!_

“Hawke?”

He looks up. Luta is on the top step. It looks like she fell asleep there, in her nightgown with her head against the banister. She yawns and rubs a fist in her eye.

“Did you find Pati?”

Hawke hurriedly wipes his tears away.

“Yes,” he says. His voice sounds too rough. Hopefully Luta is too tired to notice. “I’m sorry. He needs more time to himself.”

Luta frowns and stares blearily at him. “He’s not coming home?”

“He is, but not tonight.”

“Oh.”

Hawke’s heart breaks all over again at the forlorn look on Luta’s face.

“Everything will be alright, Luta.” Hawke climbs the stairs. When he reaches Luta, he gently lifts her to her feet. “Let’s just get you to bed.”

He has to keep a hand on her shoulder, since she keeps nearly staggering into the walls. Marmalade patters behind them, claws clicking slightly against the floor.

Luta climbs into her and Fenris’ bed. She rolls over to the right side, and blinks up at Hawke as he pulls the covers over her.

“I don’t want to sleep without Pati.”

Hawke sighs. He was hoping that Marmalade could keep him company tonight, as sad as he is, but Luta is more important.

With a whistle and a pat of the bed covers, Hawke gets Marmalade on the bed, curled up next to Luta.

“Marmie,” Luta murmurs, sweeping a hand down the mabari‘s back.

“She’ll keep you company tonight, Luta.”

“Hmm.”

Hawke turns to leave.

“Is Pati mad at me?”

He stops in his tracks, then turns around again.

Luta stares at him, eyes shining in the moonlight. “Because I’m not — I’m not obedient?”

“Stop.” Hawke takes a deep breath. He thinks of Orana, of her terrified eyes when she doesn’t understand what people want from her. He thinks of Luta as he first met her — quiet, unquestioning, frightened beneath her anger.

“You don’t have to be obedient, Luta. Fenris loves you. We all love you. You make our lives _better_ … Even when you cause trouble, or make a mess of things, or scare the shit out of me and Fenris, we love you. And we can never love you more than when you are being true to who you are.” Hawke sighs. “I never want to hear you say something like that again, do you understand?”

Luta’s eyes start to drift closed. “Mmkay.”

Hawke watches as her breathing evens out and the hand in Marmalade’s fur slows to a stop.

He sighs. “You two… What am I to do with you?”

 

—————

 

That night, Hawke lies alone in bed and never falls asleep.

 

 


	4. Bitter is Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Templars suck, Luta shows more of her creative side, and Varric is a good friend.
> 
> And Hawke?
> 
> He loses someone precious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings at the bottom

 

 

_Great heroes beyond counting raised_

_Oak and iron 'gainst chains of north-men_

_And walked the lonely worm-roads evermore._

_Mighty of arm and warmest of heart,_

_Rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow,_

_Ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill._

Andraste 1:2

 

—————

 

Hawke sits down for breakfast with a massive migraine. Everybody else has already started to eat — everybody except Fenris.

“He hasn’t returned?” Hawke asks Bodahn, nodding at the empty seat at the table.

“No,” he answers. Noticing that Luta has abruptly stopped chewing, he quickly adds, “I’m sure Serah Fenris is fine, though.”

Hawke nods. He should probably put more energy into comforting Luta; she has resumed eating, but the grip on her fork is white-knuckled and shaky. Unfortunately, zero hours of sleep have left him too lethargic and his mind too cloudy.

As he nibbles on a piece of toast, Hawke remembers that Fenris has plans to help Aveline today, and he had volunteered to watch Luta. He stifles a groan.

Maybe his mother will help…

Orana brings out a pitcher of water. She seems less nervous than yesterday, most likely thanks to Luta. Right as she starts to pour Leandra a glass, Hawke hears the front door creak open.

He knows, instinctively, that Fenris has returned. Luta must know, too, because she drops her fork and jolts out of her chair. Her bare feet slide against the floor tile as she races out of the room.

Leandra tuts. “That girl needs to learn to slow down. She’s going to bash her head open if she keeps this up.”

“She’s fine, Mother.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you, the boy who likes to run on ice and _still_ has the scar to show for it.”

“I’m a _man_ , not a boy. Also, that is not what happened.” It is what happened, many years ago, but Hawke bribed Bethany to secrecy and told his mother some lie about a wolf chasing him.

Leandra doesn’t call out his bluff. Instead, she hums and sips at her water, her eyes a thousand miles away.

Hawke takes a deep breath.

Giving up on his breakfast, he pushes his plate away and mutters a quick thanks to Orana — he’s pretty sure she cooked the meal. His abrupt departure bemuses his mother. He can feel her eyes following him as he leaves the dining room.

Alone. Hawke just wants to be alone.

On his way to his room, Hawke glances at the foyer in a fit of masochism. Fenris is sprawled on the ground there, and Luta clings to him with her face buried in his chest and her arms locked tight around his midriff. Hawke can see his lips moving — probably soothing her with words of comfort and devotion.

Words that Hawke desperately wishes to hear himself. He looks away and continues to his room.

 

—————

 

When someone knocks on his door, Hawke hopes that it is his mother, or Bodahn, or Orana. Even Luta would be fine.

Anybody other than Fenris.

Hawke’s luck always swings from one extreme to the other, though, and today his luck is extremely bad — Fenris is the one on the other side of his door, his cheeks slightly flushed and his eyes downcast.

“Hawke,” he says, gaze flickering up and back down, “I wanted to apologize. For last night. I should not have… indulged myself, at your expense.”

Hawke tries to speak, but fear keeps the words buried. Fear that he will make an utter fool of himself.

It’s a deeply warranted fear, he believes.

Fenris fidgets with his hands. “I know I hurt you. Please know that was never my intention. I felt happy, for a moment, and I forgot myself.”

“Wait.” Clearing his throat, Hawke raises a hand to stop Fenris. “You’re saying you — you were happy? You did want to kiss me?”

“… Of course I did. Surely you’ve noticed by now, how much I — I care for you.”

Hawke gapes at him.

Fenris bites his lip. “I am sorry for getting your hopes up, last night. And for the many times, intentional or not, that I have expressed interest in you.”

“Why are you sorry? Fenris, I meant what I said. I love you. If you feel even an — an _inkling_ of what I feel, then why are you —?”

“It cannot be, Hawke!” Fenris snaps. He pauses, closing his eyes and sighing. “I’m sorry. I should not yell.”

Hawke shakes his head. “Yell all you want, I don’t give a shit. Just — why can’t it be? Why can’t _we_ be?”

“… It’s not you, Hawke. I have reasons, none of them any fault of yours. But I would prefer to keep these reasons private.”

Hawke looks down. His hands feel like they are shaking, but they appear perfectly still. He wishes they weren’t. He wishes his whole body would melt to liquid and seep through the floor tile.

He wishes he never kissed Fenris.

But he did…

Hawke knows what he has to do.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll remain friends. Only friends.”

Releasing a deep breath, Fenris smiles shakily at him. “I appreciate your understanding.”

Hawke gives a tight smile back. “Don’t worry about it, Fenris. You have every right to reject me, regardless of why.”

Something dark passes over Fenris’ face, gone before Hawke can recognize it.

After an awkward few seconds, Hawke continues, “And I’ll still watch Luta for you, so don’t worry about that, either.”

“Actually,” Fenris says, “I have made different arrangements… Although, I will need your help in finalizing them.”

“Arrangements?”

 

—————

 

“I cannot believe you want Luta to stay _here_ , of all places.”

Fenris rolls his eyes. “I told you, she’s going to _wait_ here — not stay — whenever I can’t watch her. I grew complacent over the last three years, but no more. Hadriana’s appearance proved that Danarius is still after us, and now that Luta appears to be a target… I cannot take any chances. This is the one place that neither he nor any other magister would ever venture.”

Hawke sighs and looks over the courtyard. Mages and Templars alike are gawking at Luta. Probably because she clearly isn’t a mage — new denizens of the Gallows don’t usually stare at pigeons instead of bawling their eyes out — and the only children who ever come here are mages.

Prisoners.

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” Hawke mumbles.

“You do not have to help me. I can try to convince Knight Captain Cullen without you.”

“Ugh. No, I’ll help. But why does it have to be that guy? And why does he want to talk to _me?”_

Fenris shrugs. “His rank is high enough to accept my request. As for why he wants to speak with you, I suppose he holds you in high regard.”

“I really don’t get that.”

“Nor do I. He has only seen you fight with swords, and your skills with blades are not exactly impressive.”

“Excuse _you,_ serah, I don’t need such skills to impress people. That’s what my tongue is for.”

Fenris raises both eyebrows, and Hawke realizes what he just said. Blood rushes to his cheeks.

“I meant talking! I impress people with _words_ — you know what, I’m done. Where’s the nearest cliff that I can walk off?”

Fenris hides his face behind his hands, muffling his laughter. His shoulders still shake, though.

 _Cute,_ Hawke thinks.

…

He really is a masochist sometimes.

“Serah Hawke!”

Hawke turns to see Cullen striding towards them.

“And Serah Fenris. I’m glad you made it.”

Fenris nods. “Thank you for hearing me out yesterday.”

“No gratitude is necessary, serah. It is the duty of Templars to protect the innocent from the evils of magic. I think this can be considered as fulfilling that duty.”

“It sounds like you already decided to help Fenris,” Hawke points out. He keeps his face carefully neutral. “Why do you want to speak to me?”

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. “It took a lot of effort to convince Knight Commander Meredith that this is a good idea. Partially because the Circle is a place for mages and Templars only. But there is also the incident regarding —”

“— what Luta did in Hightown.” Fenris sighs. “I suppose it was foolish to hope Meredith had not heard about it.”

“The nobles were very upset, and you know how they get — oh, apologies, Serah Hawke.”

Hawke snorts. Ninety percent of Kirkwall doesn’t see him as a noble, and that includes himself.

“Anyways, the entire city probably knows about it,” Cullen says.

Fenris groans and rubs his temple.

“What does this have to do with me?” Hawke asks.

“Nothing with you specifically. She wants me to speak to someone who is willing to vouch for Luta — and her ability to behave.”

“Oh.” It sounds stupid and pointless, but Hawke doesn’t say that out loud. “Well, I can do that. She almost never causes trouble. That was a… rare incident.”

Cullen smiles. “That’s all I needed to hear. If you and your daughter would come with me, Serah Fenris, we can finish planning this in my office.”

“Of course. Luta!”

Her head swivels around at the sound of her name. Fenris waves her over, and she scurries past a group of Templars to reach them.

“This is Knight Captain Cullen. I told you about him earlier this morning.”

Bending down to her height, Cullen offers her a hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Serah Luta.”

She studies him with a blank face. Cullen doesn’t lower his hand, even after several awkward seconds. Eventually, Luta tentatively accepts the handshake, her expression still cold and distant. Cullen either doesn’t notice or doesn’t take it personally; he rises back to full-height with a crooked smile — the first genuine one that Hawke has ever seen.

“If you two will come with me, we can finish any arrangements,” Cullen says.

Fenris nods and turns to Hawke. “You don’t have to wait, Hawke. I’m planning to go straight to the Keep once I finish here, anyways.”

“Alright.” Hawke scratches his beard. The tension between him and Fenris had dissipated for a few moments, when they were both concentrating on Luta’s predicament, but he can feel it returning now. And he’ll take any excuse to escape it. “Let Aveline know that I’ll swing by later to talk about… a certain guard.”

“I will. Thank you, Hawke.”

“Sure.”

They part ways like that: awkwardly and with too much unspoken. Hawke is left in the courtyard, surrounded by mages — like him, but horrendously unlucky. Unfortunately, there appear to be even more Templars than mages.

Hawke wonders, for a moment, if Anders is on to something. If the madness of the Circle is getting out of control…

The thought of Ser Alrik’s proposal, that blasted Tranquil Solution, gives Hawke goosebumps. It was rejected, thank the Maker, but what if Meredith changes her mind —

The Gallows is a terrible place, and Hawke fears _(knows)_ that it will only get worse with time. Yet another reason why this plan is _awful;_ to allow Luta to stay here…

It makes Hawke queasy.

But he has to admit that Fenris has a point: there’s no place less likely to attract a mage than a Circle.

Hawke notices a Templar eyeing him.

_Not the place for thinking, idiot. Get. Out. Of. Here._

He starts to leave, but then he realizes that the Templar has a familiar face. He remembers what Aveline asked of him.

“Ser Emeric! A word, please.”

 

—————

 

By the time Hawke returns home, Ser Emeric is dead and a serial killer has escaped once more.

At least he got rid of that Gascard DuPuis bastard. Resisting arrest ended in a chase and a battle to the death. Even if he wasn’t the killer — even if he spoke the truth about his sister — Hawke doesn’t feel bad for a man who prioritizes revenge over innocent people.

As he removes his armor and changes into his house clothes, something starts to scratch at his bedroom door. Huffing a laugh, Hawke opens it to find Marmalade whining pitifully.

“Hey there, girl. Did you miss me?”

She responds by leaping at him, tail wagging and tongue hanging out. He laughs and bends down to kiss her nose.

“I missed you, too,” he coos.

Marmalade barks at him and spins around excitedly.

“Garrett.”

Hawke looks up to see his mother in the doorway. Her dress is unusually fancy tonight, made from green spun-silk and embroidered with golden leaves on the hem and sleeves.

“You look nice, Mother.”

“Thank you, dear.” She smiles shakily, wringing her hands. Nervous.

Hawke doesn’t like that at all. “What’s wrong?”

“We have… an esteemed guest tonight.”

“Oh?” _Please don’t be a noble I have to cozy up to,_ please _don’t be a noble —_

She nods. “The Viscount’s son.”

“Oh!” Hawke laughs. “Saemus. You don’t have to worry about him, he’s a good lad.”

Leandra groans and throws her hands in the air. “I should have known you’d treat this so lightly! He’s _Viscount Dumar’s son._ We have to make a good impression!”

“… Didn’t you spend the past couple of years yelling at the Viscount about the estate?”

She flushes. “All the more reason to make a good impression today.”

Stifling a grin, Hawke shakes his head and thinks of Carver. _The flair for dramatics certainly runs in our family, doesn’t it?_

“Don’t worry. Saemus won’t judge us. He’s here to visit Luta, right?”

“Yes.” Leandra sighs. “I knew the two are friends, but for some reason I never expected him to actually visit here. Especially after…”

“After Luta helped Saemus rile up all of Hightown?”

“Yes.”

Hawke chuckles. “I think the viscount considers Luta to be the lesser of two evils. Better Saemus visit her than the Qunari.”

Marmalade suddenly barks and hops around.

“Oh, are we not giving you enough attention?” Leandra smiles and bends down next to Hawke, scratching Marmalade behind the ears. “That’s better, isn’t it, my lovely lady?”

“You know, for a couple of Free Marchers, you and Father turned out to be pretty Fereldan at heart, didn’t you?”

She laughs. “What can I say? Dogs and mud tend to grow on you.”

Hawke mock-glares at her, making her laugh harder.

It’s a nice sound. Comforting, too, in a way that Hawke desperately needs after the debacle with Fenris.

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Thanks.”

“… Your welcome?” Leandra tilts her head and studies him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you alright?”

“Not really. But I will be, I think.”

“If you say so. I’m here if you need me, you know.”

“I do.” Hawke leans over to pull his mother into a hug. She melts into it, clutching tightly to his silk shirt. “I do know, Mother… I know.”

 

—————

 

Wearily eyeing the two kids across the dinner table, Hawke slowly munches on his peas. Luta notices his staring and has the audacity to smirk at him.

_Brat._

He has no idea what she and Saemus are planning, but the whispering and conspiring grins are usually bad signs. For some reason, Fenris doesn’t seem concerned.

He definitely should be, in Hawke’s opinion.

The two kids devour their food at an unholy pace. As soon as the last crumb is gone from Luta’s plate, they give Orana a quick thanks and race out of the dining room.

Hawke, feeling anxious, tries to locate them after dinner. He eventually finds them in the study, giggling by the window.

“What are you up to?”

“Relax,” Luta says. Hawke glares at her, making her snicker. “We’re just making paper dolls.”

She points to the ground in front of her. There’s several people-shaped parchments laid there. A nearby razor and piles of scrap show that she made them herself.

Hawke squints. “Is that my razor?”

“Leandra gave it to me!” Luta chirps. “For my crafts.”

_Mother._

“Would you like it back, Serah Hawke?” Saemus asks.

“Nah. Go nuts with it.” Hawke pauses. “No, wait. Be careful with it! Don’t cut yourselves — that’s what I meant to say.”

Luta smirks. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure not to get blood on the carpet while I practice juggling with it.”

“Oh, good. As long as there’s no mess,” Hawke drawls. Saemus laughs. “Why are you making dolls, anyways? And why were you _giggling?”_

“Luta tells very funny stories, Serah Hawke,” Saemus says. “They always make me laugh… Is it true that you know a man with an Andraste buckle over his crotch?”

“Um… yes.”

Saemus’ mouth twitches, like he’s fighting to keep it still. “And did you really get into a bar fight over the best type of cheese?”

“Why is _that_ hard to believe?! Cheese is the most important of all foods.”

“No, it’s not,” Luta says.

Hawke points at her. “Shut your blaspheming mouth right now, young lady!”

“Aveline says that vegetables are the most important.”

“Yeah, well, she also thinks copper marigolds are a good gift. So.”

“What’s a copper marigold?”

“… Don’t worry about it.”

“But —”

“Really. It’s not interesting.” This is one of the biggest lies Hawke has ever told — it’s both interesting and hilarious. However, he doesn’t have the energy to explain Aveline’s nonsensical flirting right now. “You know what _is_ interesting? These dolls. What’s up with them?”

“We’re giving them to Lia,” Luta says. “For some of the Alienage kids. She said she feels bad about the lack of toys there, so we’re making some.”

(A memory comes to Hawke — of a snow-covered village, of the orphans and the poor. Bethany learned from their mother how to make toys, and every other week she sauntered over to the Chantry, arms laden with dolls and stuffed animals. Hawke — Garrett, then — started to help her after the first couple of times.

It was a lot more fun than he expected... Making toys and playing with kids… Seeing how happy he could make other people…

They had to stop, though, after more Templars showed up. It was too risky to go near the Chantry, Malcolm said, and they knew it to be true. But stopping attracted attention, too, and their family fled in panic, in the dead of night, packs full and teeth chattering.

Bethany never made a toy again.)

Hawke smiles shakily at Luta and Saemus. “You’re good kids. A thousand times better than any blasted noble.”

This earns a bright grin from Luta, and Hawke feels…

Proud.

He feels proud.

Although, he’s not sure he has the right to, after what happened with Fenris…

For now, he decides to just roll with the feeling, and the warmth it brings, as he surveys Luta and Saemus’ creations.

…

“Luta,” Hawke says, eyeing the parchment, “did you use Anders’ manifesto to make these?”

“It’s all over the house! Pati said I could help myself.”

 _Fenris_.

It’s the first time since last night that Hawke smiles at the thought of him.

 

—————

 

Life continues. Hawke savors the moments when he can keep a lid on his emotions and enjoy Fenris’ company. When he can’t, he distances himself, afraid of what he might say.

His friends notice, and Varric and Isabela drag him to the Hanged Man for drinks and gossip.

“So, did you two fuck?” Isabela asks. She lowers her voice to a sultry tone. “Was he as fantastic as he looks?”

 _“Maker’s flaming nut sack,_ Isabela! No, we didn’t, and even if we did, I’m not giving you details for your friend fiction!”

She snorts. “Like I need your details. I happen to have a very _elaborate_ imagination.”

“Gross.”

“I’d rather be gross than a weakling like you.”

“Excuse me!?”

“Break it up, you two,” Varric says. “And don’t be so hard on him, Rivaini. The elf’s got enough issues to make the Carta flinch. Of course Hawke had trouble getting through to him.”

“Yeah!” Hawke slams his beer down on the table. “It’s not _all_ my fault.”

Isabela laughs.

“Look, he — we kissed, alright? We kissed.”

Letting out a loud howl, Isabela gets up and starts to climb onto the table.

“What are you doing!?”

“I’m going to make a toast! To you and Fenris! And to a future threesome with me!”

Hawke groans and buries his face in his hands.

“Get down, Rivaini. I don’t think Hawke’s story ends well.”

“Aaaaaw.”

Behind his hands, Hawke shakes his head and grumbles, “Fenris rejected.”

“What!?” Somebody pulls his hands away, and Hawke sees Isabela frowning and too close to his face. “That _sucks_.”

“I _know._ ”

“What are you going to do?”

“I _don’t_ know.”

Patting him on the back, Varric gently says, “I know you like the elf. But he rejected you. This is your chance to let things go. If you don’t — if you continue to court him — then you’re going to end up in a shit-ton of trouble.”

“I like trouble,” Hawke points out. Isabela nods vigorously, so he elbows her in the ribs.

“Ow! You know, Hawke, I could have my dagger through your ear faster than you could say, ‘Blue balls.’ “

“Why would I say that?”

“Because that’s what you have.”

Hawke glares at her. She snickers, all sympathy apparently gone, and Varric laughs.

“Seriously, though,” Varric says after he calms down. “You need to consider all the factors. Fenris isn’t a single package. If you get with him, you get Luta, too.”

Hawke snorts. “Too late for that. I’d die for that child, regardless of things with Fenris.”

“Well,” Varric lifts his mug to him, “then go for it. Crazy begets crazy, after all.”

“Uncalled for… but accurate.”

Hawke can’t say for sure, but he thinks Varric tells half of Kirkwall within the next two days. Everybody keeps eyeing him and Fenris, and his other friends are kind enough to weigh in.

Anders goes with the predictable told-you-so route. However, it is decidedly less enthusiastic than Hawke anticipated. Just a mumble and a grimace, then Anders returns to his languishing.

(Hawke remembers the dank tunnels beneath Darktown. _Every one of them will feel justice’s burn_. The look on Anders face when he wrestled control back from Justice. When he realized what he had nearly done...

Hawke worries for him.)

Thankfully, Aveline doesn’t berate him or anything. He was worried she would, with her soft spot for Fenris and Luta. Hawke _did_ kiss him out of nowhere, which he regrets now.

Of course, he regrets a lot of things.

Aveline doesn’t add any pressure, though. She makes him talk about it at length, and he ends up telling her everything — his feelings, his fears, his overwhelming love. She comforts him, tells him to follow his heart…

Hawke thinks that her romance with Donnic is turning Aveline soft. But he never says that out loud. He doesn’t even think about it in her presence.

When Isabela tells her about the kiss, Merrill squeals and claps her hands. Hawke is there to witness it, and can say with complete certainty that she heard too many details.

Fake details.

 _Dirty,_ fake details.

Hawke also witnesses Merrill’s sincere distress when she finds out that Fenris rejected him. She invites him to a tea party at her house — an attempt to cheer him up, he suspects — but Hawke doesn’t find a party when he arrives. It’s just him and Merrill, and tea with no cake or biscuits.

Not that he minds. It’s relaxing tea. She also makes him a flower crown before he leaves. He wonders where the flowers came from, but decides that it is best not to ask.

 

—————

 

Hawke returns home from Sundermount one day to find his uncle waiting for him.

“It’s about time!” Gamlen snaps. “I’ve been waiting for half an hour.”

“Shouldn’t you be with Mother?”

“That’s why I’m here. Leandra never showed up for our weekly luncheon.”

Hawke frowns. She never said anything to him about missing it…

“Maybe she forgot.”

Gamlen gives him an incredulous look, which is fair. Leandra’s not the forgetful type.

“Oh!”

Hawke turns to see Bodahn and Luta descending the stairs, Sandal right behind them. Luta waves at him before she heads off to the library with Sandal chasing after her, grins on both of their faces.

Bodahn heads over to Hawke and greets him with, “Welcome home, serah. Your uncle arrived a while ago.”

“I can see that,” Hawke says, stifling a laugh. “He says he’s looking for Mother.”

“She went out hours ago,” Bodahn says. “To do a bit of shopping.”

Hawke frowns. “And she never came back?”

“No. I think she went to meet her suitor after.”

“Suitor!?” Gamlen scoffs. “She never said anything to _me_ about a suitor.”

“Well, somebody sent flowers here.” Bodahn points to a bouquet on the table near the fireplace.

Hawke walks over to look for a note of some sort. Instead, he recognizes the flowers —

_White lilies._

The world closes in around him.

 

—————

 

Hawke sits on his bed, clutching his mother’s ring tightly in his fist.

Aveline gave it to him. She must have looked for it among the body parts, abandoned in that Maker-damned tunnel. Hawke is grateful for it. Nothing in the world could have compelled him to look. Not when he had already seen more than he could bear.

What that — that _monster_ did to his mother… Hawke couldn’t even bring her corpse home to bury. Not like that. So he brought her up to the foundry instead. His friends gathered all the wood they could find, and Hawke turned the other way as his mother burned to ashes.

Ashes that Hawke could not even keep. It didn’t feel right; they weren’t just _her_ ashes. They were also Ninette’s and Mharen’s and Alesha’s and Maker knows how many other women’s —

He took the ashes to the docks and threw them to the sea. As they fell to the waves, Sebastian said some sort of prayer for the dead. Merrill also had a prayer for them — an elven one that Hawke couldn’t understand, but at least he understood the sadness in her voice well enough.

That was when Aveline — strong and steady at his side, his oldest friend in the group, the one who cried silently at the sight of Leandra’s body — slipped something into his hand. Hawke knew his mother’s ring by touch alone.

He looks at it now, in the flickering light of the fireplace, and of course he knows this ring, its tiny grooves and scratches, its engraved message of love. He knows how the sun shines on it on a Fereldan afternoon. He knows that whenever his mother stared at it, she was remembering Malcolm and the tiny wedding they had, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar village. He knows this ring marked the beginning of the life they built together.

He knows his mother’s past. He knows her regrets and her promises. He knows her anger. He knows her sorrow.

He knows her love.

And Hawke knows that this ring is all that remains of Leandra Hawke. That it is all he will ever have of her for the rest of his life.

Suddenly, he cannot stand any of this knowledge. _If it would take this pain away,_ he thinks, _then I would gladly know nothing at all._

A tear falls on his knee. Hawke curls his fists tighter and feels his mother’s ring cutting into his flesh.

_I wish I knew nothing._

His bedroom door opens.

“Go away, Aveline,” Hawke croaks. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, but —”

— but he can’t handle an audience right now, can’t handle it alone either, can’t handle anything at all —

“— I would like a moment to myself — to —”

“I am not Aveline.”

Hawke jerks his head up. His vision is blurry, but he believes he would know the face before him even in total blindness.

“Fenris?”

“… I apologize if my presence is unwanted, but I wanted to at least — at least offer any comfort I can provide.”

Hawke sniffles and looks down again. His fists have unclenched without his notice; there’s a deep circle in his palm where the ring dug into it.

“Can you help me take this off?” Hawke jiggles the chain around his neck — the wolf pendant that Luta gave him three years ago.

Fenris hesitates. Then, releasing a deep breath, he nods. His fingers graze Hawke’s skin as he opens the clasp. Normally his touch sends sparks down Hawke’s spine, but today he feels nothing but a hollow ache on his chest.

Hawke mutters his thanks. The chain slips easily through his mother’s ring, which clinks against Luta’s pendant. When he glances at Fenris, he sees a fond expression — the sort of expression Fenris usually only shows for his daughter.

In this moment, Hawke wants to yell. He wants to make Fenris cry, to run away. To hurt.

 _You were the one who left_ , his mind screams. _Why are you here now? Haven’t you done enough!?_

Hawke says none of this. He hates himself for even thinking it. He meant what he said the morning after they kissed; Fenris has the right to his own choices — no matter how terribly they hurt Hawke.

Wordlessly, Fenris takes the chain from Hawke and clasps it around his neck again. His mother’s ring hits his clavicle. It’s warm from his own touch.

Another tear slips out.

“Can you say something?” Hawke asks. It is the only comfort he can think of: a friend. Someone beloved.

“What would you have me say?”

“… Was it my fault? Was I just — too late?”

Fenris pauses, casting his gaze to the fireplace.

“My answer is not the one that matters. You cannot find forgiveness from me,” he says. “Nonetheless, I shall say it… You did not fail your mother, Hawke.”

He stares at Fenris, who finally looks back at him. He offers Hawke a sad, bittersweet smile.

“It is the ones who live that suffer still. It took me a long time to understand that… I know it hurts to never see her again. I know it hurts to think of how much of the future she will miss. But if it were reversed, if you were the one gone forever, Leandra would have been beyond devastated…”

Fenris pauses. Takes a deep breath.

“In an ideal world, no parent would ever bury their child. And Leandra may have died, but you haven’t. She never had to suffer that… Please know, Hawke, that as long as you survive, you are fulfilling her greatest wish.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I am a parent. Also, I know what it looks like when someone feels no love for their child. Leandra loved you very, very much. Take comfort in that.”

 

—————

 

While Fenris eased some of his guilt, Hawke still finds his mother’s absence all-consuming. He cannot eat bread without thinking of her hands kneading the dough, cannot read without recalling her eyes tracing letters across a page, cannot sleep without dreaming of her voice.  

He cannot breathe without inhaling the stench of death from that damned tunnel.

It is not necessarily a stronger grief than the one he holds for Bethany. It’s just that there are no distractions this time. No Blight to flee from, no servitude to a smuggler, no expedition to prepare for… The typical random errands and favors nowadays aren’t enough.

Once in a while, he thinks of Carver, determinedly slaying darkspawn in spite of his sorrow, living for the sake of a purpose greater than himself, and Hawke envies him.

It is not a feeling he’s proud of.

 

—————

 

His friends try to comfort him over the following weeks.

Aveline is normally the one Hawke relies on for such things. After all, they saw each other through mourning before, after Bethany and Wesley died. But this time is different. This time, they mourn and miss the same person. Hawke finds that when Aveline visits, her own grief resonates with Hawke’s, and her presence teeters between painful and soothing. He tries to hide this, for her sake.

Sebastian is also tries to bring him peace, but his belief in the Maker rubs Hawke the wrong way. He was never faithful in the first place; the destruction of his family certainly doesn’t help.

On the other hand, Merrill keeps trying to mourn Leandra through Dalish customs. Hawke doesn’t mind it, but it doesn’t provide him the comfort that she is aiming for.

Perhaps daunted by their own pasts, Isabela and Anders don’t know what to do. They swing back and forth between treating him normally and walking on eggshells around him. Hawke doesn’t mind either way. Like Merrill, they are neither hurting nor helping.

And the other members of the household only make everything worse. Orana and Bodahn seem weary and downtrodden without Leandra around, while Sandal is lost in his confusion. Speaking to them is painful, but Hawke bears with it for their sake.

Luta is another matter. She’s irritable sometimes, and miserable all of the time. Her attitude comes to a head over dinner one night.

“You need to eat more,” Fenris says to her. He’s not wrong — she has spent the last ten minutes staring at her cabbage, eyes dark and a little damp.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t be wasteful —”

“You eat it then! I don’t want —”

She cuts herself off, clamping her mouth shut and pushing her plate away. She stands; Fenris does, too, his face set in a grimace. Everyone watches as Luta stomps out of the room, her father closely at her heels.

Hawke tries to care, to urge himself to follow, but he can’t. So he finishes his dinner quietly, instead.

It tastes of nothing.

Later, when he’s trying and failing to fall asleep, the guilt over his inaction drives him out of bed. He has claimed, time and time again, to love Fenris and his daughter. If he abandons them in his sorrow, then isn’t his love a lie?

So he shuffles into the hallway, guided only by moonlight. He pauses at his mother’s door.

Even in death, the room is still hers. Will probably always be.

Hawke tears his eyes away and continues to Fenris’ room. He hears voices as he nears.

“— I know, Luta. But you are not alone —”

“— but I will be! I’ve always known that everyone would leave me. First the warriors, then Carver, then Leandra —”

“— Luta —”

“— I _know_ that soon Hawke will, too! And Varric, and Isabela, and Aveline andMerrillandAnders —”

“— my child —”

“— andyouwilldietooandthen —”

“— _Luta! Stop!”_

A silence falls behind the door. Hawke hovers outside. His fear outweighs his guilt; he doesn’t knock.

“I know how hard this is for you,” Fenris finally speaks. “And I know — I know I have no right to ask for your trust. But please… _please_ believe me when I say that you will never be alone again.”

A pause.

“You can’t promise that,” Luta says softly. “You know you can’t.”

“I don’t have to promise. Luta, my child, listen to me. I need you to understand something… That day in Seheron, when we first escaped Danarius, I went back for you out of parental instinct — instinct that I spent years burying and weakening. Do you know what that means?”

Luta must shake her head, because Fenris continues, “It means that instinct could not have carried us this far. It could not grant me the strength to keep fighting for our freedom. It could not even bring me to love you, my only child.”

There’s a choked gasp, a hitch in someone’s breath.

“No, no, no, Luta.” Fenris shushes her gently. “I’m not saying that I don’t love you. I’m saying that my love does not come from our shared blood. My child — my dearest Luta, I love you because of _who you are_. Every day, I think my love for you is so infinite that it cannot grow greater. And every day, I am proven wrong because I discover more to love.”

Hawke hears Luta start to cry. He closes his eyes.

“When I finally acknowledged you as my daughter, I had no idea that I would one day be so _grateful_ and so _proud_ for it. You are a gift, Luta. To me, and to this world. And if you do not believe me, there are already so many who would say the same. Hawke, and Varric, and Isabela. Even Aveline, despite your attempts to drive her batty.”

Luta chokes out a laugh.

“And even if we were to all perish, you would still not be alone. Because you are too great for that, Luta. People will see you, will see your worth, and they will follow you. They will cherish you. And you will never be left wanting.”

It’s all false promises. Hawke knows that. Nobody is guaranteed kindness.

Hasn’t history proven that? The Hero of Fereldan — there are few greater than her, and she and the other Wardens were abandoned at Ostagar, and betrayed by their nation. And what of Hawke’s mother? She was left wanting in her final hours. Alone. Frightened. Hurt. Maker knows she deserved better than that.

So of course Hawke knows that just because Luta _should_ be happy for all of her days, that doesn’t mean she will be.

But he hopes that she will. He truly, truly hopes that Fenris’ words prove true.

Luta’s voice drags him from his own thoughts.

“I’m not a fool, Pati,” she says, sniffling. “I have seen how this world works… But thank you. For believing in me like that.”

Fenris chuckles. “You think that, Luta. But if I have faith in anything, it is you.”

Stepping away from the door, Hawke decides that Fenris has a handle on the situation. And he has already heard too much.

He returns to bed, and dreams of his mother when he finally succumbs to sleep.

 

—————

 

Luta is different after that. She is still quiet, still clearly sad, but she spends less time moping and more time staring at Hawke. He doesn’t understand why, at first.

Then he notices how Fenris frets and hovers over him. Luta has clearly noticed, too, or perhaps Fenris encouraged her. Either way, she copies his behavior, asking Hawke if he needs anything, if he would give her company, if he wants to visit the Hanged Man. It’s cute. More importantly, Luta manages to lift Hawke’s spirit a little.

Fenris is slightly more silent in his support. He tries to predict Hawke’s needs and fulfills them accordingly. It might have been nice months ago, before Fenris rejected him, but these days, Hawke just finds his behavior stifling.

Throughout all of this, Fenris shows no signs of his own sorrow. Hawke knows it is there, though; he witnessed Fenris and Leandra speaking at length many times. Fenris often smiled during those exchanges — sometimes softly, sometimes brightly. Hawke used to love seeing that.

Now, it is another part of his mother that he will never get back.

The one person who truly makes things better is Varric. Perhaps it is his natural charm, or the way he understands Hawke, or his own recent experience with the death of his brother. Whatever the source is, there’s an understanding between them. One that often leaves Hawke drinking at the Hanged Man late into the night, Varric at his side.

“You need a distraction,” Varric tells him one evening. They’re in his room, drunk and sad and glad they’re not alone. “It’s okay to mourn, but you can’t forget to live.”

It sounds like something his father would have said. Hawke coughs into his ale.

“I know. But nothing is working.”

Varric pats his back. “We’ll figure something out. Try focusing on things you like, for now. Things that make you happy.”

Hawke sighs. “You should, too. I hear a lot of people are looking for the next _Hard in Hightown_ book. Can’t imagine why, though. It’s lacking in some ways.”

“Let me guess. You’re annoyed I haven’t introduced a character based off of a certain elf.”

“Yeah, that’s about it.”

Laughing, Varric raises his mug to him. “I’ll work on that… We’ll be alright, Hawke. We’ll be alright.”

 

—————

 

After clearing out some ne’er-do-wells in the Alienage a few weeks later, Hawke finally finds what he needs.

 

—————

 

“What is this?”

Hawke’s smile falters. “It’s — it’s the Book of Shartan. The elf who fought the Imperium at Andraste’s side. The freedom fighter?”

With every word, Fenris’ eyes narrow further. He never takes the book from Hawke’s outstretched hand.

“Is this a practical joke?” he hisses. “Did Anders put you up to this —”

“What? No!”

“— because I knew he would do something in such poor taste, but I didn’t expect —”

Hawke panics. “I just thought you would like it! It’s Shartan! Shartan!”

After a moment of intensely studying Hawke, Fenris’ scowl softens a little. “You’re not joking… Do you really not know?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. I don’t know a lot of things.”

The joke doesn’t ease Fenris’ tension at all. He looks away, his pointed ears slightly red around the tips. “My apologies. I forgot how unfamiliar southerners can be with slavery. Hawke, I… I cannot read.”

“… Wait, what?”

“It is as I said.” Fenris flushes even more. “Slaves are not permitted to read, yet alone taught by their masters.”

…

Hawke slaps himself on the forehead with the book. “Fenris, I am so, so sorry. I had no idea.”

“It is no fault of your own.”

“Still…” Hawke perks up. “Wait, you weren’t permitted?”

“I thought we already established this.”

“No, I mean, it was a lack of permission, not a lack of desire? Are you interested in reading?”

“Of course I am! But at my age, it hardly matters anymore —”

“It matters! There’s no age limit on learning.” Hawke grins and shoves Shartan’s book into Fenris’ arms. “I can teach you!”

A series of emotions cross his face, too fast for Hawke to discern. “If… if you are sure —”

“I absolutely am!”

“— then, would you mind also teaching Luta?”

 _Oh._ Hawke should have realized sooner; if Fenris can’t read, then Luta can’t, either. Except…

“Why hasn’t Isabela taught her?”

Fenris snorts. “Isabela has a very selective taste in literature, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Considering this, Hawke laughs. “Fair enough.”

“Besides, I am unsure if Luta is interested. She has… poor experiences with reading. But perhaps enough years have past, now…”

Fenris trails off, his eyes dark. Hawke clears his throat. “Well, ask her if she’d like to learn, and if she would, I’d be happy to teach her.”

“Actually, it may be best if you were the one to speak with her.”

Hawke snorts. “Right. Cause I’m the one Luta likes best. Very funny.”

“I’m serious, Hawke. Just… ask her if she would like to learn. This isn’t something she’ll want to hear from me.”

So Hawke asks her. Luta responds with so much enthusiasm, one of her flailing arms knocks over a candlestick.

“I’ve got it,” Hawke says, chuckling. He puts the candlestick back on the table, grateful it was unlit. “You’re much happier about this than I expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your father said you have bad experiences with reading.”

Luta stops jumping up and down. Her arms fall back to her side, and she frowns and tilts her head. “I do?”

Hawke opens his mouth, then shuts it as he struggles with what to say.

He eventually goes with, “I think you know better than I do.”

“… I don’t, though.”

Hawke frowns too, now. “You don’t remember anything like that?”

Luta shakes her head.

“Huh.”

“I mean, I remember things from — from when I was younger,” she says. Hawke knows what she really means by ‘younger.’ He clenches his jaw. “But I can’t remember _everything_. It’s more like… like scattered moments.”

“Hm. I get it. That happens to everyone as they get older.”

“Out with the old, in with the new?”

“Exactly.”

Luta gives him a flimsy smile, then looks down and shuffles her feet.

“I remember some letters,” Luta says softly. “Somebody taught me the alphabet, but I can’t remember their face or their name. I only remember that they worked in the kitchen… That’s where they gave me lessons, I think. I remember flour all over the books…”

She drifts off, shoulders tense. Hawke pats her back consolingly, and she relaxes slightly.

“But you don’t know how to read. What happened? Did they stop giving you lessons?”

Luta shrugs. “I don’t know. They could have been fired if they were a servant, or sold if they were a slave. Or they might be dead. I remember a _lot_ of slaves dying.”

Hawke shudders. The Imperium and its practices always make him uncomfortable, as if spiders are crawling down his back. “Well, if they were trying to help you, then they deserve a lot better than that.”

“Yeah…” Luta sighs. “Everybody does.”

 

—————

 

Their first reading lesson goes…

Actually, Hawke’s not sure how it goes. It has been _years_ since he helped his mother teach the twins. He doesn’t know what kind of progress Fenris and Luta should be making. They could be quick learners, or they could be as slow as Bodahn when he cleans the chimney.

Fuck if Hawke knows.

He doesn’t say any of this out loud, though. Fenris is so frustrated that Hawke just blurts out praise — as much as he can without seeming suspicious. It mollifies Fenris a little, but he still snaps the quills in two every time he hits a snag.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, looking contrite. “I do not mean to —”

Hawke smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it. They’re not fancy or anything. I can buy plenty —”

“But it is rude of me to —”

Hawke shakes his head vigorously. “You’re not _rude_. Actually, sometimes you are — and I love that, by the way. But this! This is my choice. I _want_ to teach you.”

Fenris turns back to the parchment he’s been practicing on. His penmanship is worse than most children’s, but Hawke thinks that he’s improved over the past couple of hours.

“I do not understand you, Hawke,” Fenris says softly. He picks up a new quill and dips it into the ink. “How can you be so kind all of the time?”

Hawke snorts. “I’m not.”

“You are. Your generosity is like an endless well.”

“It is _not._ ”

“Yes, it —”

“You two argue about the dumbest shit.”

Hawke looks to his left, where Luta is lying on the ground. She has some ink on her nose and chin, which makes Hawke snicker. Luta stops writing at the sound, jerking her head up to glare at him.

“Why are you laughing?” she snaps.

“Nothing.”

“Liar. Tell me or I’ll — I’ll —”

“Or you’ll what?”

“I’ll put a centipede in your bed!”

Hawke screeches and fumbles backward, nearly falling out of his chair. His elbow bumps the table, which is incredibly painful but also incredible _stupid_ , since Fenris glares at him for ruining his penmanship even more.

“Sorry,” Hawke mumbles. Fenris grunts and goes back to writing, jaw clenched in irritation.

Luta, meanwhile, is rolling on the floor, cackling and clutching her stomach.

“You are a little shit, thinking of the only thing _worse_ than spiders,” Hawke tells her.

She gives him a thumbs up and laughs even harder.

“Luta,” Fenris growls. “We do not express our gratitude for Hawke’s kindness by threatening him with insects.”

She wheezes back, “But that’s how I say thanks to everyone.”

 _“Luta_.”

“Fiiiiiiine. I’m sorry, Hawke.”

“Apology accepted,” he says cheerfully. He waits until she looks his way to stick his tongue out at her.

She scowls and gets up off the floor. Before she can exact any kind of revenge on Hawke, Bodahn pokes his head into the study.

“Excuse me, serahs. I was just hoping Luta could spare a moment to help me with something.”

Fenris frowns. “With what?”

“Sandal found his way onto the roof again. I was hoping she could talk him down.”

Luta perks up immediately, chirping, “Okay!” before following Bodahn into the hall.

Hawke turns to Fenris. “You know, she’s probably going to join him on the roof.”

“Oh, she most certainly will.”

Laughing, Hawke looks over Fenris’ writing. “I think you’ve improved.”

“Great,” he says, sarcasm loud and clear. “I can copy letters to parchment in a slightly eligible manner.”

Hawke glares at him. Fenris sighs and mutters an apology.

“It’s fine. I know you’re frustrated,” Hawke says. “But you _have_ made progress in your handwriting. And you started memorizing the alphabet! That’s pretty important.”

“I suppose…” Fenris stares intensely at him. Hawke can feel his cheeks start to flush.

“What?”

“I just… want to know if you are doing better. You’ve had dark circles under your eyes lately. And you’re eating less.”

“Nightmares,” Hawke explains. “And some would say eating less is a good thing.”

“Clearly, _I_ am not one of them.” Fenris narrows his eyes at him. “You are always so kind to others. You would do well to show that kindness to yourself, too.”

“… I’m fine, Fenris.”

He gives him an incredulous look. Hawke laughs and grins at him.

“Fine, fine. I admit it,” he says, tone gentle. “I’m not fine… But I’ll survive.”

“I hope so... No, actually I — would you promise me?”

“To survive?”

“And to live.”

“… Yes. I promise, Fenris. I have no intentions of dying.”

Fenris still appears unconvinced, but he at least lets the subject drop and turns back to his lesson.

Hawke wonders if there will ever be a day when Fenris believes him.

 

—————

 

When he dreams that night, Hawke sees his mother’s head — only her head.

“I’m so proud of you,” it says. Congealing blood slowly dribbles out of its mouth with every word. “My precious Garrett. I’m so proud.”

Hawke can’t help it; he bends over with his hands on his knees and throws up. The bile turns into blood mid-air.

It splashes on the ground at his feet. A second later, a hand rises out of the puddle, decaying and grey and covered in maggots. The rest of the body that follows is just as decrepit and disgusting. Hawke recognizes the beard on the corpse’s face and twists to the side, heaving out more blood.

He hates this.

And it’s not over yet.

Behind him, Hawke hears an ogre’s roar, and something smashes into the ground beside him. He doesn’t have time to look before a hand grasps his shoulder, its nails and veins blackened.

Hawke shrugs it off. Covers his ears and clamps his eyes shut.

He still hears his family’s voices crystal clear.

“I’m so proud —”

“— give me strength —”

“— don’t feel so good —”

Coughing. “Look after them —”

“— help, somebody! I need help!”

Hawke’s eyes fling open. Demons have used his father’s image for years. Then came Bethany, then Carver, and most recently, his mother.

This is the first time he has heard this voice.

Slowly, hands shakily lowering from his ears, Hawke turns. Between his tainted brother and the crushed body of his sister, Luta is crying. It’s not the Luta that he knows. She is younger, younger than Hawke has ever seen her, and thinner, too. Her face is frighteningly gaunt. Her wrists too bony.

And her tiny hands are covered in blood — so much of it that there are steady drips falling from her fingers.

The drops land on a body crumpled at her feet. It’s in a chef’s uniform, and there’s a pointed ear peeking out from its dark hair. As though sensing his gaze, the body morphs. It twists into a slimmer shape, and into darker clothing. Hawke sees the armor, the white lines of lyrium.

His heart stops.

He was prepared for his family. Not Luta. Not Fenris.

“Help!” She screams louder, drowning out the other voices. “Please! I can’t save him alone!”

Hawke takes one step closer before he remembers himself, and stops.

_“Please!”_

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He doesn’t know why. It is demons before him, not the child he cherishes. Not the man he loves.

Still, he repeats it as he crumples to the Fade’s ground, covering his eyes and ears once more to no avail.

Among the cries still echoing in his ears, new voices arise. Unfamiliar ones. Powerful ones.

_We can help._

_Just make a deal with us._

_We can save them for you._

_Just a little blood._

_Only a little._

It seems like Hawke ignores their offers for eternity before the sun grants him sanctuary, waking him from his slumber and pulling him from the Fade.

He refuses to use magic for three straight days.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: morbid imagery, mentions of slavery, Merrill may kill you with cuteness
> 
> I'd give you a hint about the next chapter, but we all know what's coming.


End file.
